honestly I wouldn't get sick as often if my workplace adopted a stricter policy about sick people working

Dev Diaries

June 15, 2023

Y’all it wasn’t (just) my asthma out to make me see the pearly gates...it was COVID ☠️ it zipped through everyone in my household, and unfortunately me and my mom got the full punch to the face. I was already pro-mask + pro-hygienic practices, but now I’m extra pro-mask complete with a death glare directed at all the uncalled for commentary from strangers.

Enough about being sick LOL, I’m making this because I want to talk about games, also sometimes I cope with humor.

Current WIPs

I know y’all sick of my shit (me too), but as far as I’m concerned, Crushed is coming out this summer!! Really!! I will make it happen even if I have to do a few updates post-release, so help me God. I want to move on to other things and I’m so antsy and pitiful looking at a nearly-done-but-not-quite-yet-project 😭

And I know Sundays and Tuesdays have been super light on content recently but I feel like I don’t have enough to share once or twice a week? (And the stuff I do have is too boring 🙂) I’ve been told to reblog older posts but as you see, the only thing I reblogged was the pinned one lol. (I promise to do better with consistency on HBG Project #3) 

(ALT text isn’t working for me right now, so below is the concept sketch for Ariel!! Obviously you see her on the key art buuuuut I originally planned to share this with y’all anyway!)

Ariel’s role...evolved during the production of this game, for lack of a better word. When I sought out to tell Corey’s story and decided against a kinetic novel experience, there were certain things I wanted to bring attention to (and certain decisions I wanted to leave in the player’s hands). This discussion will get dangerously close to spoiling the content of the endings SOOO we’ll put a pin in it!!

(The below image is a screenshot with Corey, Florence, and Jacob. The text reads “I kinda forgot she was standing there too...”)

This scene was written and coded with the rest of Corey’s friend group being off screen, but eventually I got sprites for Keegan and Oke. But I can’t help reimaging this scene with either of them and it makes me laugh so hard! That being said, I don’t imagine what you see in the demo will change in the final build buuuut who knows??

Randoms

I hinted waaay back when that I planned work on an HSDJY sequel this year. To my dismay, it’s still in the throwing spaghetti noodles at the wall stage. My ambitious ass lowkey hoped I’d have a finished draft for at least one of the routes by end of the year--because self-made deadlines 🎉, but I’m stuck in outline HELL!!!

That being said... it’s okay to work on other things, I am giving myself permission to work on other things, and I’ve been eyeing game jams. But the low stakes one where I won’t jeopardize my sanity. There’s Yuri Jam, which I participated in last year, and then there’s Once Upon A Time VN Jam WHICH LOOKS LIKE SO MUCH FUN???? 

I’ve been doing a lot of reading while recuperating (which probably means nothing because I’m always reading??? Unless I’m in a slump. Or playing viddy games. Dude. Don’t get me started on the pitfalls of being a game developer + bookish content creator. Time management?? We broke up) and the beginnings of an idea are starting to gel! I want to make another short project, and I’m curious if I can come up with something that fits the parameters of both jams. Fingers crossedl!!

Conclusion

I...don’t have anything else to add. 

But go check out the games and projects I’ve reblogged posts about recently!!

Some are fully released, some are out soon, some have Kickstarters, and/or some are WIPs!!!

(Oh, and I guess check out High School Daze: Junior Year to see my humble beginnings)

- Gemini ✌🏾

✿: feeling so out of it, they need constant attention

You’ve got it! 💕  Thanks for the ask!

Someone asked me to write asthmatic Matthew in the ER a while ago, and I didn’t do it, but here it is now. 😂 I hope it's not total trash.

Sweet Normalcy

Word Count: 1555

Chest pain, the dull aching kind that flares up every time he inhales, that’s all he feels. Keeping his eyes open takes a great deal of effort, but the constant hissing flow of nebulized albuterol being delivered through the mask on his face makes it hard to get any sleep. Maintaining a train of thought for longer than fifteen seconds is also a sudden challenge. When he rolls his head to the right and looks up at the monitor behind him, he sees his heart rate is in the 140s and his oxygen saturation is at ninety-five percent on albuterol and oxygen. That’s not normal for him. None of this is normal. He can’t remember the last time things got this out of control.

“Matthew? Any better, love?” Dad asks him from the chair to his left. He’s been sitting there for hours now, continuously keeping vigilant watch.

It’s a busy night in the emergency department, and it feels a bit like he’s in a bad fever dream. The doctor checking in on him introduced herself earlier, but he can’t recall her name. An alarm goes off every few minutes from someone’s monitor, and it takes him longer than it should to recognize that it’s his monitor making that noise and alerting his nurse to keep coming over to assess him due to his seesawing oxygen saturation and heart rate.

Matthew’s not even sure what time it is anymore. He barely remembers anything. Every hour or so, he will doze off into a fitful half-sleep for twenty minutes or so before waking again and feeling disoriented. A nurse could tell him he’s been here for a week, and he’d believe them.

“Matthew? I asked if you’re feeling any better?” Dad asks again, leaning forward in his seat to grab his clammy left hand and squeeze it gently.

“A little,” Matthew lies, for his father’s sake. He wonders where Alfred and Papa are. They were here earlier, he’s pretty sure.

“I can tell when you’re not being truthful,” Dad sighs, squeezing his hand harder. “You’re not improving. You need to be admitted. This is ridiculous. You should have been admitted hours ago.”

Matthew hates seeing him stressed like this, but he also knows there’s nothing he can do about it at the moment. He feels himself slipping into momentary sleep again, and his eyes flutter shut. He wants to go home. Wants to be in his bed…Is it morning yet?

“Sixteen-year-old with a history of asthma…Patient accompanied by his father. Patient began oral corticosteroid treatment two days ago at home after experiencing wheezing, chest tightness, and coughing that was not fully improving with usual rescue medications…”

They’re talking about him—Matthew realizes that much, at least. He opens his glazed eyes and sees a new doctor approaching him. His ID badge says he’s a critical care doctor. Matthew’s not sure what the difference is between him and the other doctor he saw earlier, but he honestly can’t be bothered to care. He wants to sleep. Desperately. And he wants the chest pain to stop.

“Matthew, buddy?” the doctor says, putting a hand on his shoulder.

He doesn’t want to breathe anymore. His chest hurts too much, and speaking would require taking another agonizing breath.

"Mmmrgh" is all he can manage.

“He’s been less and less responsive,” Dad supplies from the other side of the room, and Matthew can hear the nervousness in his voice, which is unsettling. Dad rarely ever shows how anxious he is when someone’s sick. “I can’t get him to talk to me in full sentences anymore—just phrases.”

The doctor carefully sits him up, and Matthew feels his whole body shake. He rests his elbows against the stretcher to brace himself. A cold stethoscope touches his back, and he shivers.

“He’s still not moving air. He needs to be brought upstairs to intensive care to be monitored. We’ll continue IV steroid treatment and continuous albuterol. If he’s still like this, we can consider non-invasive ventilation and take it from there. Our main priority is to protect his airway.” 

Dad says something, but Matthew doesn’t hear it over the noise of the nebulizer. He just knows he’s going to be moved soon and the treatment is going to become more serious now. If he weren’t so tired, he might be scared.

The doctor leaves, and Dad goes back to holding Matthew’s hand. “It’s going to be all right, love. You’ll receive better care soon and hopefully, you’ll start to feel better,” Dad tells him before using his other hand to pet his head. “Try to rest. I’ll be right here, and I won’t let anything happen to you, understand?” 

Matthew nods. His eyes do close again, and he does get some brief rest. The next time he’s aware of his surroundings and wakes up, he’s already in the ICU, which means he slept through his transport. The respiratory therapist is setting him up on a BiPAP machine, and once it’s on, it makes his chest hurt even more, which he didn’t think was possible. He grits his teeth against the pain and tries not to make a fuss about it—it would just make Dad worry even more. The air being forced into his lungs is welcome yet excruciating at the same time.

But he doesn’t have to say anything for Dad to know he’s suffering. It’s written all over his face. “I know, poppet. It’s just temporary. It should help.” 

It’s so exhausting that he falls asleep again without even needing to think about it. Again, he has no idea how much time passes until he sees the sun shining through the windows of the hospital, indicating that it’s finally morning. The BiPAP mask squeezing his face gets replaced with a regular oxygen mask again, and it occurs to him that his chest feels much lighter and his head is clearer. The worst is over. The air in his lungs feels crisp and refreshing...Almost sweet, even. 

“How are you feeling?” Dad asks for the millionth time, still perched next to him. 

“Better…For real this time.” 

Dad hasn’t slept, of course. He never sleeps in such situations. He was likely watching him all night and conversing with his care team. “Good. You gave us all quite a scare.” 

“Sorry.”

“Oh, no, it’s not your fault, love. Not at all…Do you think you’re feeling well enough to have some breakfast?” 

“Yeah.” 

Dad gives him a relieved smile and then goes off to request a breakfast tray for him. It gets brought up within half an hour, and even though Matthew feels a bit nauseous from the steroids in his system, he knows he needs to eat to gain some energy back.

He’s given some pancakes, a fruit cup, and orange juice. He decides to make a move for the orange juice first because his mouth feels incredibly dry and gross. He picks up the carton and that’s when he notices just how shaky he still is. His hands are trembling violently from all of the bronchodilators in his system.

Dad quickly takes the carton from him, sticks a straw into it, and then brings it back up to Matthew’s lips. “Here, poppet, I’ll hold it for you.” 

“…I can do it.” 

“You’ll spill it. Don’t be stubborn.”

It doesn’t feel great to have poorer motor skills than a toddler, but Matthew sips some juice through the straw anyway, allowing himself to be fed because he doesn’t have a choice. He finishes the entire carton, one pancake, and half of the fruit cup before his stomach protests. Dad doesn’t seem too happy about him not finishing the meal, but he doesn’t push it either. 

And just as he’s finishing up, he finds out Alfred and Papa are outside of the unit, waiting to be allowed in. He’s only permitted to have two visitors at a time, so Dad leaves to take a quick trip home to eat and shower while Alfred and Papa take watch next. 

“Dude, you’re alive! Thank God, man. No offense, but you were looking really rough and out-of-it yesterday,” Alfred exclaims upon arrival, bright-eyed and full of pep as always. “It’s good to see you’re looking more like yourself now.”

“We’re so relieved, mon chou. Your father said you may be able to come home as soon as the day after tomorrow.” 

“I hope so…Sorry for making everyone worry.” 

Alfred throws his hands up in the air and shakes his head dramatically. “I have to teach you everything, don’t I, Mattie? You’re not supposed to apologize for being sick. You’re supposed to milk it for all its worth and make everyone feel bad for you and buy you get well soon gifts. Tell Dad when he comes back that you wanna play the new Pokemon Snap on the Switch.” 

“That’s what you want to play, Alfred.” 

“Yeah, but we can share it, right?” 

“Alfred, your brother is seriously ill, and all you’re thinking about are video games again! Where did your father and I go wrong? You could show some sympathy!” Papa scolds, pinching the bridge of his nose in aggravation.

“It was a joke! Kinda…Obviously, I love ya, Matt! I was really worried, too!” 

And he has never craved normalcy as much as he does now. 

Yup. Things are already going back to normal.

Priorities JJ x Daughter!reader

Your head was splitting, you were coughing, your chest was tight. You were burning up. You were sick, and had been coughing so hard one of your teachers sent you to the nurse. You were kicking yourself with the stress of her job the last thing your mom needed was to have to worry about you. But of course as soon as the school called JJ was on her way telling Hotch she needed the rest of the day and tomorrow off too. 

Your mom sat down next to you on the nurse’s cot and felt your forehead,  “sweetheart your burning up, come on lets get you home.” she said.

You nodded agreeing as bad as you felt for making her leave work you just didn’t have the energy to do anything about it. JJ helped you stand and walk out to her car. 

“How about I make you some soup, baby?” 

“Can we also have a movie night tonight?” 

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” JJ helped you get in her bed and brought over the thermometer before taking your temperature. “101.5, not to bad, but high enough for you to be in bed,” she said before reaching into the drawer of her night stand and getting you some Tylenol, and your asthma inhaler. Your asthma doesn’t effect you as much now that you’re older, but it did flare up quite a bit whenever you got sick.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about not feeling well mom, I didn’t want you you to worry with your work being really important.” 

“Sweetheart, I want you to listen to me very carefully. I know you don’t wat me to worry, but sweetie it’s my job to worry. And I dont care how busy I am with work if you need me for anything I want you to come to me. If I’m out of town on a case you can always call me. My job is important, but not nearly as important as you.” 

You hugged your mom burying your face in her shirt, “I love you mommy.”

“I love you to baby,” she said hugging you back tightly.

That night JJ woke up to the sound of you violently coughing next to her she saw you sitting up in bed hunched over struggling for breath. You were having an asthma attack. She grabbed your inhaler and helped you take a couple of puffs, “it’s okay sweetheart, just try to relax,” she said rubbing your back. After a few minutes you managed to gain your breath back, but your chest still felt pretty tight. JJ got up to get your nebulizer something you only had to use once in a while.

“I feel terrible mommy,” you whimpered.

“I know sweetheart,” said your mom sympathetically as she helped you put the mask over your mouth and nose, “you’ll feel better in a few days. Your mom then went into the bathroom to get you a cool cloth to lay on your forehead. “Let’s watch some tv,” she said getting in bed next to you and turning on the television. Then she put her arm around you and kissed the top of your head. 

It was now morning you and JJ had been sleeping soundly for a few hours when JJ was woken up by her cellphone ringing.

“JJ, we got a case It’s local,” Hotch informed her.

“I cant come in today Y/N’s sick.”

“Barnes wants you here.” 

“I cant just leave my daughter home alone.” 

“You can bring her in with you Garcia can watch her while she rests in her office.”

Sighing JJ hung up her phone and went to your side just as you were waking up she felt your forehead. It seemed as though your fever went down slightly, “how are you feeling sweetheart.”

A harsh cough racked your body before you answered. “Not great, mom.”

“I’m sorry baby, ”she said moving some hair out of your face. “I need to go help out with a case your gonna stay with Penelope. You can stay in your pajamas ok?”

You nodded and the both of you left the house. Once you were stopped at a red you began to cough harshly again “Baby, what’s wrong?” Your mom asked concerned as she felt your forehead. You were burning up again and your chest was starting to tighten.

 “asthma, need inhaler,” you said taking another puff, but you still felt your chest beginning to tighten and JJ was getting really concerned. “It’s not working I feel like I cant breath.” 

JJ immediately turned the car around, “alright screw this case I’m taking you to the ER,” she said stepping on the gas peddle. “Hang in there baby.” 

Your mom managed to get you to the hospital in record time and helped you get out of the car where you were taken into the ER and immediately put on a stretcher. “Its gonna be ok sweetheart,” she said as a nurse placed an oxygen mask on you before you lost consciousness. 

“Mam were going to need you to stay out here,” said the nurse, and with that JJ watched them wheel you back not knowing whether or not you’d be ok. 

JJ paced back and forth waiting for any news on how you were doing. She never should’ve agreed to try and go in when you were sick. Much less take you with her, what was she thinking? If she had stayed home with you she could’ve gotten you back on the nebulizer and you probably wouldn’t be at the hospital. She told you one thing that you were most important, but her actions said something else. She texted Hotch letting him know you were in the hospital and she couldn’t help with the case aftercall. Linda Barnes could kiss her ass for all she cared.

Finally a doctor came back into the waiting room to talk to JJ he informed her that you would be they were able to get your breathing back to normal with a breathing treatment and some steroids, but were going to keep you in the hospital the next couple of nights for observation, and JJ breathed a sigh of relief.  You were ok, her baby girl was ok. 

She was led back to your room, but was informed you’d probably be asleep since they gave you muscle relaxants as well. JJ found herself breaking down in tears when she was alone with you in the room, you could’ve died because of her bad decision, what kind of mother is she? “I’m so sorry baby, this is all my fault,” said your mom just as you began to stir.

“Mom?” you croaked your throat felt incredibly sore. 

“Sweetheart,” your mom immediately grabbed the cup of water and helped you take a long sip from the straw since you only had a nose cannula and not the mask from before.

“How are you feeling?” JJ asked concerned.   

“Better,” you said realizing you could now breath normally, “I don’t feel so sick anymore,” you added.

JJ nodded, “they also gave you fever reducers.”

“Why were you crying?” 

“I let you down sweetheart,” she said moving some hair out of your face. I almost left you when you were sick. And I was gonna make you stay at the Bau when you should’ve been at home resting with me your mom taking care of you. You probably wouldn’t be in the hospital now.”

You understood where your mother was coming from, but she usually was there when you were sick. JJ would just help the team out from home, and only go in if it was an emergency. 

“From now on I’m going to stay with you when you’re sick no matter how minor it is. If Hotch or Barnes has a problem with that I’ll find another job,” she said shocking you your mom loved her job so much you can’t imagine her ever quitting.

But that’s exactly what she told Hotch when she called him back, and that she was taking the rest of the week off to be with you, her number 1 priority.

Look at me when you kill me.

Hi, my name is Alyssa.

I'm 41 years old, a mother, a writer, a dog-lover, and a great big nerd. Not too long ago, I realized a couple of really huge lifelong dreams: first, I moved from the Southwest desert to the lush green east coast area where there are trees, and water, and shade, and life; then, just last year, I published my first novel.

I am also a newlywed! After surviving a disastrous first marriage to someone I never should have been with in the first place, I unexpectedly met the most amazingly perfect partner for me in 2016 and fell just deliriously in love. We will be celebrating our second wedding anniversary in October. I never, ever expected to be this happy, or this in love with another human being. We lost a lot of time being on opposite ends of the country and not knowing the other existed for close to forty years. Now every second we have together is a treasure and it will never be enough.

My life is pretty good despite a few blemishes. Money is always an issue. My health is another. I suffer from asthma, polycystic ovary syndrome, Hashimoto's disease, anemia, dysautonomia, degenerative disc disease, and agonizing chronic joint pain possibly related to something in the chronic fatigue family. I've had multiple injuries in recent years that didn't heal right and still give me the odd twinge because I never saw a doctor for them. I'm also autistic, which means I'm vulnerable to another cluster of physical and mental health issues such as gastritis and other stomach troubles, Celiac disease, sensory processing disorders, depression, and anxiety.

Mostly I just get on with things because I have a lot to live for. I spend a lot of my time with dogs, which makes me happy, and every second I spend with my husband is a joy. My second book is coming out later this year, and I have plans to write many more. I'm only 41 and my second shot at life is only just starting. I have lots of things planned.

In April of this year, just days after my birthday, I had surgery to remove my cancerous thyroid gland. It was really scary to go in for a major surgery during lockdown, and it has been scary trying to recover from surgery in the middle of a global pandemic that, frankly, not enough of the people around me are taking seriously. However, I'm now cancer-free and my doctor assures me that my long-term prognosis is excellent. For all intents and purposes, she said, I can consider myself “cured.” It's nice to know that, because my road to recovery has been and remains pretty rocky.

Still, I'm getting there.

I'm telling you all of this because I need you to understand something. When you talk about the COVID-19 pandemic and you say things like, “Only old or sick people are dying from this. Healthy people are going to be fine. It only affects people who were probably going to die anyway,” as the reason why you think we should end restrictions, “get on with it,” and “go back to normal,” you're talking about me. I'm the “sick person” who will die or be left seriously compromised if I am exposed to COVID-19. The vague someone else you're okay with sacrificing, because it's not a real person to you, it's just a statistic? It's me. I'm real.

I want you to look at my face, and read my words, and understand that you are saying it's okay for me to die so you can go out for Buffalo wings, or see a concert, or send your kids back to school. You're asking me to volunteer to die so you can stop feeling like things are weird and hard and uncomfortable right now.

Let me be clear: I do not want to die. I do not volunteer. And you have no right to demand it of me.

I wouldn't say I “live in fear,” exactly, but I am afraid. Mainly I'm afraid because very few of the people I have to interact with seem even marginally invested in making sure they don't expose me to a disease that absolutely will ruin me if I contract it. If it seemed to me, even a little bit, that my community cared about helping to keep me safe, I wouldn't be so afraid.

Instead, what I mostly see is people arguing why they shouldn't have to care. Why I'm expendable. Why my death – which is completely avoidable – is actually an acceptable cost of them being able to do whatever activity it is they want to do. Why my desire not to die is actually an infringement on their rights somehow. I'm less afraid of the virus than I am of my fellow humans, who have largely made it clear that their indifference to death and suffering means they would actually prefer for me to die, because then one more person insisting on safety measures would be out of the way. Herd immunity, I hear a lot of the time.

“Herd immunity” means me, and people like me, dying for your convenience. Millions of us. I've tried to get my head around the physical reality of the number two million – a modest estimate of the number of deaths it would take in the U.S. alone to reach any kind of herd immunity. I can't do it. It's too big. I'll never interact with anything like two million people over the course of my entire life. I'll never see two million people all in one place. It's too big. And every single one of those sacrifices to your comfort is a human being like me: with plans, with loves, with dreams and fears and many more dogs to pet and trees to climb and books to write.

I do not consent to be your sacrifice.

I wouldn't say I live in fear, no, but I do have a lot of anger these days. How dare you demand my death in exchange for your haircut? For your Disney vacation? For your dinner at Applebee's? Even, and I'm sorry to have to be so blunt, in exchange for this one specific year of your kids' in-person schooling? Yes, this is terrible and hard. No, it's not good that this is what we're all going through right now. Yes, this is going to have an impact on the children that we're going to be dealing with for a long time to come. No, my death is not an acceptable trade-off.

It is not. I don't know how to make that clear enough to you. I may be one of the “pre-existing condition” people, but I'm not “probably going to die anyway.” My conditions are managed and I'm healing and I have a lot to live for. The only way I'm dying is if you insist on killing me. You don't have to do it. You can choose to value human life more than the convenience of dinner out in a restaurant. You can choose to protect me by wearing your masks properly and washing your hands and staying home except for necessities until the virus is under control.

There is nothing foregone about our response to this pandemic. The virus will do what viruses do, obviously, but this fatalism so many people have embraced toward our handling of it is bonkers. We have choices, and America has chosen mass murder by indifference as if there's no other way. This is me grabbing you virtually by the lapels and demanding to know what is wrong with you that two hundred thousand of your friends, family members, coworkers, doctors, retail clerks, hairstylists, and teachers can drop dead in six months and your response is, “Well we can't live in fear. It's time to open the schools! Let's get back to work! I miss concerts! Fake news!”

My name is Alyssa. I am one of the sick ones. I am full of passion and imagination and I have a lot of living left to do yet, and I am real.

I do not want to die, and you have no right to ask me to.

If you ever want to write a full account of your hospital stay, I'm so here for it. I want it all: the farts, the grannies, the fighting over windows, the other weirdos, why you want to murder the doctor and how your fam will help you get away with it, the works. Start writing while I grab the popcorn! 🍿

Ok, don’t remember what I have said here already, so I’ll give a full story plus some flashbacks from my childhood.

-I got 4 grannies in my room, the average age: 65+

-granny number one: ultra Catholic, made a cross on my forehead (I was so shocked, I didn’t say a shit, aside of screaming in my head – woman?! Covid restrictions?! Keep your distance?!), a farmer woman (one day she just said that when she wants a chicken soup, she goes outside, catches the chicken, chops the head and make a soup – the faces of the other grannies - PRICELESS), praying in weird moments, instead of sweat pants, wearing dress shirts and dress pants (and you know, we were doing physical exercises there???), loving dirty jokes and making them A LOT,

-granny number two – tiny old sweet lady (she was like 80 something years old?), usually sitting in the corner or on the balcony and praying silently, she was like Catholic kamikaze, she sometimes was sitting on the balcony and praying for FIVE HOURS, oh, and once shitted her pants

-granny number three – ex school director, Miss Ooooow, Ooooow, came with 2 suitcases and occupied ½ of the wardrobe (for example, I managed to put all my things in my night stand), was very surprised I came with so little clothes and was washing them, was crying when she had to wash her hair because she always goes to hairdresser…

-granny number four – on a wheelchair, my best pal, making her own cigarettes at evenings on the canteen (a place where the meals were served, close to the balcony), as much done with the other ladies as I was,

-our room were filled with weird Turkish soap operas (the first time they turned the television on some Mahmud wanted to kill some Bahar and the dialogues were so cringy I had to check if it was a real show and surprisingly it was). Every day after I was evacuating my ass to the canteen or to the balcony where I was reading (I’ve finished 19 books and my ass still hurts because of the fucking hard chairs).

-if it was not a Turkish soap opera, it was Polish News on the public channel (Imagine FOX news), so every fucking day when it was played, the traitors of Polishness and Polish tradition and the only good ruling party like me, were gathering in the canteen. We were like a few folks (me, the granny number 4 and some dude doing crosswords and having super high blood pressure, mostly because all dudes from his room were watching the news and agreeing with everything what was said there)

-food, examples

-so I was not eating too much, so granny number one made a cross on my forehead and blessed me, so I would eat more and have a strength to give birth to children – I shit you not

-when I said I don’t want children – they almost had a collective heart attack. I decided to not reveal my other social, religion and political opinions, because I would be strangled to death in my sleep by a rosary one night

-one day I was stupid too much and didn’t leave the room while they were watching Polish Fox News and while half listening to the bullshit I probably made a fuck-my-life-face. When they ask what I was thinking about, my, a fucking idiot, said that about the vanity of life. They almost got another collective heart attack and almost ran to the nurses, no idea why but whatever

-Granny number 3, was afraid of other people snoring, because she had problems with sleep. In the end she was the one who snored the loudest

-there was an opening/closing the windows war. Granny 1 had sick lungs and asthma and whatever so was always closing the window because she was getting pneumonia and oh my god, while Granny 3 had problems with breathing, was suffocating and oh my God, so she was always opening the window. Granny number 3 was always opening the window while other already left for the meals, while Granny number 1 was always returning first and complaining SOMEONE was trying to kill her with the cold air and closing the windows. HILAROUS stuff

-on the end of the first week I ACCIDENTALLY broke a small window that was situated on the top, a window that supposedly was not meant to be open, so for the next 2 weeks we had a window opened ALL the time. Don’t ask why no one called some dudes to fix it, I have no idea, but thanks to it I survived the nights full of symphonies of farts

-that one day they gave us beans for the dinner and boy, you can only imagine

-one day we got a meat chops with a crispy batter. If you added the batter on the bottom to the batter on the top of the meat, they were thicker than meat itself

-all soups tasted the same. One day they gave us a soup and I was SURE it was a pickled cucumber soup and I was AMAZED that they managed to make it without cucumbers. Then I have learnt it was a sorrel soup *sad music in the background*

-the grannies loved to motherhen me for some reason. For example, I was sitting politely in the canteen, reading another fucking book, when one of them came and said I should not read so much, it’s unhealthy and they are worried about me. I was blinking for 30 seconds, wondering if laughing like a mad hyena would make them having another collective heart attack. In the end I just mhm-ed and continued reading.

-later I have learnt they were behaving like that, because they thought I was in middle school…

-basically, I was the youngest person on the ward and some nurses and other patients felt sorry for me because I didn’t have anyone in my age to talk… and I was like… why the fuck I should have been feeling sad? I could read and NOT TALK??? Also, or reading or murdering the grannies with a plastic spoon in their sleep, so thank you very much, leave my ass alone.

-on one dinner I basically ate pasta with pepper, because the spinach, guys, the spinach was awful and I’m not going to traumatize you with the pic

-I had a deal with the crosswords dude during breakfasts and suppers – was giving him ham and cold meat, he was giving me jam

-the Granny number one was SLEEP SINGING one night

-two days per every week some farmer was coming and selling his vegetables and fruits. Guys, all patients were buying food there, for sure I was weeping while buying plums, apples and tomatoes.

-Granny number three was super annoying and acting like a bitch aka typical ex school director, because when she wanted to watch something in TV at night, she always did even if the others were upset, but when she wanted to go to sleep at 9 she owww owwww owwwwed and was turning the lights off. So, sometimes I was returning at 9 to the room and it was dark. And there were no night bedside lamps, so it meant you needed to go to sleep too. At fucking 9.

-the face of one dude who was eating with us on one table was always priceless every time when he was opening the boxes. It was a personification of a man who was done, crying inside and knowing he can’t escape

-the most traumatizing experience after my hip surgery was PEEING. The nurse brought me a bed pan and I needed to pee while laying on my back and it was weirdly difficult, maybe because the nurse was standing over me, talking to another patient. Also, I can’t imagine taking a shit while laying, but whatever. On one moment after like a minute me trying hard, she put a hand on my stomach and said, oh so hard. My face was probably a mix between: ==’ and O.O. But in the end I succeeded, yay…

-another traumatizing experience is measuring the temperature every morning around 6. You know, you are sleeping, but suddenly feel some movement, so you open your eyes and a nurse, wearing a mask is aiming a thermometer that looks like a gun at your forehead. Amazing feeling

-I talked with some dude who had the same surgery aka hip removal, but he was not sleeping so he herd everything, and said how blood was gushing all over the place and the surgeons and the nurse was bringing the artificial hips three times, because the surgeons were not sure if they are the good ones. FUN

-btw, the first time when I saw a dead body was in a hospital. There was a ward where one room was for children, the rest was for adults after accidents etc. Sometimes someone died and they were usually putting the dead body to the bathroom on the corridor (no toilets at the rooms, it was one of the two bathrooms for whole ward). They usually put an “out of service” paper on the door, but sometimes they forgot about it. So, one night, me, sleepy and yawning went to the toilet, opened the door and hellooooooooooo the end of my innocence.

-the most stressful experience from my childhood hospital stayings was “did you defecate yesterday”? Because if you didn’t for a few days an enema was waiting

Oh my god I forgot this great story from work today

So bc everyone is wearing mask, and I am mainly a lip reader, it's kinda hard to hear people when they order. I often repeat back their order a few times, just to make sure everything is correct.

But. I started having to cough really bad. Like bad. Like when you get that tickle in the back of your throat and need to get a really nice cough out. That kind.

But this is covid times. Anyone who coughs is seen as gross and bad and sick.

So I'm trying to hold in a really bad cough, but this nice, elderly couple, had just finished the last of their order, and now comes to time for me to confirm it.

And here I am, struggling to talk literally at all, but I need to do my job. So I really quickly grab my drink from under the counter, try my hardest to even breath, and finish their order.

And I gulp down my drink, a fruit punch mixed with sprite, a nice light pink, and then. Cough. Hard. But the drink was still in my mouth.

My, nice, white mask with a cute smiley face, gets stained pink and becomes very, very wet.

The older couple, who had just started to walk away look at me in horror, but dont say anything.

Everything was ok though, my manager told me to go sit in the back and catch my breath, she's had to witness first hand how bad my asthma can get, and I get a new drink and mask. Got my temp taken, all good, nothing too bad.

But I can't get the look of pure terror off my face when that couple turned to look back at me...

Stoki Whumptober Day 13: Breathe In, Breathe Out [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12]   

Steve had retreated to the rooms Tony had assigned to him back at the tower. Bucky was next door, washing the grime off while Steve reviewed the tapes that SHIELD had provided of Loki and Bucky’s total destruction of the Hydra facility that had held them. 

He didn’t know how to feel about it. 

On the one hand, the samples they’d taken from him were almost certainly destroyed, and that particular nest of assholes-- specifically the ones who had tortured him and Loki-- had been wiped out. But it was supposedly a SHIELD hospital. How many innocent people had been collateral? 

SHIELD was still working on figuring it out. 

It made Steve feel sick to his stomach. And when he thought back to before the carnage, how Loki had talked him out of his fugue-- 

It was hard to breathe. He could remember all too well the way Loki had looked and acted, aloof, cold, like turning on a switch, he was suddenly just as bad as he’d been at the start, before their uneasy truce and his sometimes occasional good deed that the Avengers tried not to look too far into. 

Steve tried to stand, feeling his throat getting hot and itchy-- almost like he was sick, or going to vomit, or getting ready to cry-- or all three, all at once. 

It felt, really, most like an asthma attack; something he hadn’t felt since gaining over a hundred pounds of muscle and speed healing. 

He collapsed to the ground, hand going to his neck as he felt his airway constricting. 

Panic bubbled up through him, and he choked on nothing, looking for help. 

“Captain Rogers, I wanted to apologize--” 

Loki walked through the door as though he hadn’t been chained up fifty floors below, last Steve saw him, like he belonged here and knew his way around. 

At the moment, Steve didn’t care; he’d never been happier to see him. 

Loki looked shocked, but rushed to his side, and he felt cool, almost cold hands sliding over his throat, looking for the source of the problem. Steve felt his eyes closing. 

“CALL STARK.” Loki demanded, and Steve heard Jarvis respond. He cracked his eyes open and saw a golden light forming under Loki’s hands, flowing into him, and he tried not to be scared-- Loki was helping, wasn’t he? It felt like it. Steve felt a thin stream of air going into his lungs. Not enough, but something. 

And then the door was being broken in, and Tony was aiming his repulsor at Loki, again. 

“The Captain is suffering some kind of delayed effect from his time with Hydra. We must get him breathing, or he’ll die.” Loki spoke quickly and flatly, but some of his concern was still audible. Steve didn’t have time to ponder that. He sat up as best as he could-- and how had he ended up halfway in Loki’s lap?-- and nodded at Tony frantically. 

Tony moved to the wall, opened a panel, and like magic an oxygen tank and mask appeared. 

Tony crouched down and fitted it over Steve’s face. 

“Later, we’re gonna have a talk about how you got out of your cell.” He warned Loki. 

Loki didn’t answer though; his eyes were fixed on Steve. 

“It isn’t enough. We need to open his throat; we need to get air past the inflamed tissue.” 

Steve saw Loki casting around, and he saw when his eye lit on the desk. Loki lunged for it and came back gripping a pen. 

“Woah woah, hold up, you can’t perform an emergency tracheotomy with--” Tony started, but Loki ignored him again and simply murmured an apology before slamming it into Steve’s throat. 

“Fuck.” Tony said, and quickly pulled the mask off, ripping the tube that fed into it out and feeding it through the new hole that Loki had made. 

Steve felt his lungs filling with air, and felt when Tony removed the tube a bit to let the air out. 

“Okay Steve?” Tony asked, and Steve held up a thumbs up, not sure how long they were supposed to do this. 

“Alright. Manage his breaths, I need to go to work on this inflammation. If all goes well, we’ll have you breathing on your own in short order.” Loki was glowing again, and his hands were on Steve’s neck, but this time he didn’t tense at all. 

“How the hell do you know all this?” Tony asked, following directions and giving Steve air and space to let it out again. Steve could feel himself exhaling through his mouth, and he wasn’t losing consciousness, but it was still markedly weird. 

“You think my spells are only good for exploding buildings?” Loki shot back, never shifting his focus from Steve. 

“I have no idea what they pumped into him, but he is reacting severely and badly. It would behoove us to figure it out before such a thing can be weaponized. If he is doing this poorly, imagine yourself, or the Widow…” Loki’s speaking tapered off, and Steve saw him frowning. 

“Yeah?” Tony asked. “And how are we going to do that? Supposing I believe you and this is from Hydra and not you trying to play hero by solving a problem you made, you blew up that whole place! How are we supposed to learn anything from--” 

Steve felt a weird squeezing sensation in his throat, and then felt something moving up and out of it, and into his mouth. He opened up, and Loki floated a liquid out. In the next moment, Steve felt his airway opening back up, and sat up, pulling the tube out with one hand while he plugged the hole in his throat with his other. 

He could feel his healing already going to work on the puncture, but his voice was still creaky when he spoke. 

“That was some fast thinking. Thanks.” He looked between the two men at his side, and wondered, briefly, how the hell they’d come to this. 

Loki shook his head, and retrieved the glass from Steve’s counter, depositing the liquid into it. 

“Here’s your sample to examine. I think the Captain could use some rest.” 

“Steve.” Steve croaked. “You can call me Steve.” 

Loki tilted his head, face unreadable. 

“Steve, then. Let’s get you to bed, Steve.” 

Tony made a strangled noise, but didn’t move to stop them.

Mighty Oaks

Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Peggy Carter, The Howling Commandos. Pretty much everyone from The First Avenger. 

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes (Stucky)

Summary: Steve has always been told “mighty oaks from little acorns grow.” He just never knew what that meant to him.

Warnings: Language, poor written smut, fluff and angst. 18+ only.

Word count: 4550

A/N: I wrote this for @thinkoutsidethebex​ ‘s writing challenge, which I had a hell of a lot of fun with. It’s also my first time that I have posted anything that I have written for one of my ships, so I don’t know how well this is going to blow over. 

Also, I got the proverb “mighty oaks from little acorns grow”.

Anywho, enjoy.

People say that mighty oaks from little acorns grow, right? Right now, Steve’s not convinced. Alone and cornered in an alley, the date is August 18, 1942, 4:30 in the afternoon. And Steve is already on his third fight today. 

In his defence, the first one was NOT his fault, and the second he didn’t fully mean to start. This one, though, Steve damn well meant it. He stands defiantly towards the bully, chin jutted out and fists balled at his sides. The red headed man laughs, stepping forward. Steve takes one step closer and the man laughs harder.

Steve can’t for the life of him figure out what’s so funny. Until he sees the man flex his fingers, and a small silver knife falls from his sleeve, and into his grip. 

“Shit.” Steve mutters, eyes darting around for some sort of escape. 

“You really think that your life is worth it? Protecting some girl?” The slimeball twirls the knife in his fingers, taunting, toying. Steve can’t find a way out. So he does the one thing he can think of. 

He dives to the left, crashing into a pile of trash bins, and grabs a lid. Popping up, he hurls the lid with all his might. Granted, not much might, but points to him for trying. It spins through the air, and crashes into the man’s nose with a sickening crunch, making him stumble backwards with his hand over his face. Steve hurtles a pile of trash, and races out of the alley. 

The guy shouts behind him, and Steve narrowly avoids the knife as it is hurled at him with scary accuracy. Steve doesn't stop running until he stumbles through his front door, on the verge of having an asthma attack. 

Bucky looks up from his spot on the couch, untying his shoes from the day’s work. The brunette stands abruptly, dropping one shoe off his lap, and shaking the other off his foot as he trots over to him. 

“Stevie? What happened?” He puts his hands on Steve’s shoulders, and wrenches him upright, looking at all the bruises and nicks on his face and hands. Steve gives him a grumpy look and refuses to talk. Bucky lets out an exasperated sigh, and leads him to sit on the sofa. 

He leaves to grab a washcloth, running it under the bathroom faucet. Taking it back in, he wipes away the street grime and the stray drops of blood, going gently around the tender skin of his black eye. 

“What happened?” Bucky tries again, placing two fingers under his chin and lifting his head. Steve frowns again, and begins to recount the stories of his three separate encounters. And by the time he is done, Bucky has sat on the floor in front of him, staring dumbly at the little blond. 

“You’re lucky I love you, you punk.” Bucky manages to say, shaking his head and dropping the now warm cloth next to him. He pushes up with a tired arm to lean forward, his lips connecting with Steve’s. 

Steve smiles as he wraps a hand around Bucky’s nape, pulling him closer. Bucky swings around to sit on the couch, moving Steve to sit on his lap, kiss never breaking. Bucky begins to work at the knot of Steve’s tie as Steve begins to grind down, growing harder by the second. 

Steve pops the buttons of Bucky’s dirty white henley, before moving onto the buttons of his own button down. Bucky trails his fingers down Steve’s back, then slides them around to firmly grip his boyfriend’s waist, grinding up against him. 

He jumped slightly as Steve’s cold fingers slid under his shirt, working it up and over his head, their mouths only breaking apart once he needed to pass the shirt over. He tosses it, not caring where it landed, and begins to leave a trail of kisses down Bucky’s jaw, to his neck, and finally, to his shoulder, sucking at his pulse point. Bucky groans as Steve runs his hands over his toned abs and chest, then quickly moves his hands to rid Steve of his own shirt, exposing his thin frame. Bucky moves his hands back to Steve’s hips, and stands abruptly, Steve hooking his feet behind Bucky. Moving slowly, he makes it to the bedroom, shutting the door and collapsing down on the old mattress.

_____

It's June of the next year, Steve has just been denied enlistment for the fifth time, and he still somehow has found himself cornered in another alley, this time for trying to get some asshole to stop shouting out during a picture. Just his luck. His eyes dart around, and he does it again. He grabs the lid of a trash bin, holding it in front of him like a shield. 

He isn’t fast enough when the guy swings his fist around to connect with his jaw, knocking him to the ground with a grunt. 

“Hey!” He hears.

“Pick on someone your own size.” Steve knows that voice. He pushes himself up and turns around just as the guy is running out of the alley. Steve can feel his stomach drop out as he lays eyes on his boyfriend, clad in a military uniform.

“How many times is this? And really, Jersey?” Bucky is busy straightening out the medical examination card, eyes down, unsure if he would be able to take the look he just KNOWS is on Steve’s face. Steve draws in a shaky breath, then speaks. 

“You got your orders.” He doesn't pose it as a question, but he keeps his voice low, masking the brokenness of it all. Bucky finally looks up, giving a mock salute.

“Sergeant James Barnes, 107th.” Bucky places his arm around Steve’s shoulders with a little laugh, then pressed a kiss to Steve’s cheek. 

“Come on.” Bucky huffed a laugh, forcing a smile to his face. 

“Where we going?” Steve asked, trying to keep the solemn tone from his voice. It wasn’t working. Bucky bit his lip and gave a shake to the blond. 

“The future. I got us some cover tonight.” 

_____

The “date” went about as well as any cover date could have gone. To the outside world, it looked like Bucky was with the brunette, and Steve was with the blonde, not that it was two illegal pairings.

Of course, the Stark expo had not held Steve’s interest for very long. The floating car was OK, but when he had turned around, there was an enlistment sign, pointing him in the right direction. With a glance back over his shoulder, he decided that he could try his luck. He snuck off to go find it.

Bucky had caught up with him quickly, giving him a little push from behind and telling him that they were going to bring Dottie and Claire dancing. Steve told him he could go on without him, that he was going to try again. Bucky had gotten mad, getting into a little argument. 

Bucky hadn’t been able to stay mad for long, though. He shook his head and brought Steve in for a hug, wishing he could kiss him silly in public. That was the last time Bucky would see Steve for another three months, the last time he would see Steve at that size. 

Steve got into the supersoldier program that night. 

_____

Steve thinks about the phrase his mother had told him years ago.

“Mighty oaks from little acorns grow, now don’t you forget that Steven Grant Rogers.” She had ruffled his hair and sent him to bed. 

Yeah, Steve is REALLY not feeling that. He has fallen in the mud again, grunting as he tries to get his thin legs back under him. Hodges had hit him with the stock of the training rifle again, right to the gut. If looks could kill, Steve was pretty sure that he would have killed him by now. 

Hell hath no fury like an angry Steve Rogers. 

So he runs harder, barely overtaking the guy in the second to last position. He drops the gun and jumps at the rope ladder, but his leg slips through and he falls back, an annoyed look on his face as the drill sergeant yells at him and a few of the other guys laugh at him. 

“I bet Bucky didn’t have to go through this.” He grumbles to himself as he pulls back up, resuming his climb. 

It was these very events that made it hard to believe he was the one chosen to partake in the experiment. At first, he thought it was some sick joke they were playing on him. Then, when he returned to the barracks and his was the only stuff there, it sunk in. 

_____

Steve lay strapped to the table as it flipped up, the doors closing around him. Dr. Erskine had said that the serum would not only give him a pristine physical form, but would cure any and all illnesses he had. And by God he hoped he was right. He hoped that he was right when him and Bucky would sit up, talking late into the night about how neither of them thought their love was an illness. He hoped he was right that there was one thing the serum would not be able to change. 

Love was pain, and he was willing to live with the pain he sufferers every day in order to not give up Bucky. That's the one thing he doesn't think he would be able to live with. Giving up Bucky. 

The door shuts and the pain starts. Dull at first, but it grows until he feels like his bones are on fire, his vision going white. He tries not to yell out, but as it grows unbearable, he cries out. He can hear shouting for the machine to get turned off, so he shouts for them to keep going. He grits his teeth and stays quiet.

He can hear the strap around his stomach break, the thrumming of the machine deafening, the light blinding. Outside, sparks fly and the power dies all at once, leaving Steve trapped in the hot metal sarcophagus. The doors pop open and let in a rush of much welcomed cool air. He may not yet be mighty, but he certainly is bigger.

He opens his eyes as the doctor and Howard Stark help him off the mechanism. Steve thinks for a panicked moment, his love for Bucky doesn't seem to have been changed. Then Peggy asks him how he feels, reaching out to just barely touch his newly defined pectoral muscle. His skin crawls at the touch, and he resists the urge to smile because, yup, he still is very much in love with Bucky. They were right. He smiles. 

_____

Steve’s next two months fly by in a storm of dancing USO girls, and propaganda. And as he sits backstage of the latest show, in the middle of rainy Italy, he can’t help but think about how close he could be to Bucky, to his second half of his heart. 

His hand absently sketches out a monkey, riding on a unicycle and carrying his shield. 

“Hello, Steve.” He jumps at the voice, and turns to look over his shoulder, catching sight of Peggy Carter. 

“Hi.” He says, a little surprised. She smiles and sits next to him, trying to give her comfort to him. All he can see himself as is the dancing monkey. A horn sounds and it makes him jump again, looking to the commotion of people hauling wounded out of an ambulance. 

“They look like they’ve been through hell.” He says. Peggy hums beside him, and gives an explanation. 

“Your audience contained what's left of the 107th.” Steve’s stomach drops to his toes, the blood drained out of his face. He asks for confirmation, but doesn't get it as his patience has run out, and he’s racing out to Colonel Philips’s tent. 

His one goal is to get Bucky back. 

_____

Steve storms the castle. Or, factory in this case. He has unleashed his full fury, teeth grit, knuckles bloodied. He races around trying to find the prison ward, then unlocking all the cages. Hundreds of prisoners flood into the hall, but none of them the one he is so desperately searching for. He takes off in the direction that one of them points in, hoping, praying to any god there might be, that Bucky is still alive. 

He finds him strapped to a table, muttering his numbers, eyes glazed over. Steve quickly makes sure the room has no video feeds, and he rips the straps off. 

“Bucky!” He calls, placing his hand over his beloved’s cheek, smoothing his thumb over the bone. Bucky’s eyes slip back into focus, and he squints at Steve.

“Steve?” He asks, lifting his arm to grip the blond’s shoulder. He looks confused for only a minute until Steve bends down to lock lips with him. Like Prince Charming waking Snow White from her poisoned slumber, Bucky bolts upright. 

“Come on, we gotta go Buck.” Steve helps him off the table, and they hobble their way out of the factory, questions of how and why and when rattling from Bucky’s mouth. 

“I’ll explain later.” Is what Steve eventually gives Bucky.

_____

Steve doesn't leave Bucky’s side for the next few days. They sit in Steve’s dimly lit tent, rain pouring on top of them. Sitting side by side, Steve’s hand rests on Bucky’s knee as he explains things. 

“And here we are, sitting in this muddy hell.” Steve finishes. Bucky hums, tracing up Steve’s muscular forearm with one finger. Bucky leans his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder, testing out the new odd feeling of having both more muscle padding and more height. He switches so his chin is resting on his shoulder, his icy blue eyes staring into Steve’s sky blue. 

Steve leans down to kiss him, tongue tracing the seam of his lips for entry. Bucky yields, and their kiss deepens. Steve twists his body so they are facing each other, one leg on the bed, the other dangling over the edge. Hands card through hair, and breathing gets more erratic. 

This is how Peggy finds them. 

“Captain, we need to discuss--” She walks into his tent, eyes trained on the file in her arms before looking up. They had broken apart in time to not have actually been caught in the act, but their appearances were proof enough. Both wore their undershirts with casual base pants, matching disheveled hair. Steve had a hickey at the base of his neck, and Bucky was covered in little nips.

Steve stood quickly, eyes wide in terror. They were sure to be thrown out of the army, most likely put in jail or put through correctional treatment. Bucky remained frozen on the bed. Peggy’s jaw dropped, file drooping until it was at her side. Steve reached his hand out, then withdrew it like he was going to get burned. 

“Look, Peggy, I can ex--”

“I knew it.” Peggy whispers, looking from one to the other. They looked at her dumbfoundedly.

“Your secret is safe with me. I’ll just leave this here.” She says as she places the file on the end of Steve’s cot. She turns to go back out into the rain, but stops to say one last thing. 

“You may want to consider something a bit more private.” She smiles warmly at them, and exits, the flaps swinging lightly as they close. 

_____

Not a week later they find themselves walking through the woods around base, both of them having the day to themselves. Naturally they decide to spend it together. Steve holds out his arm to stop Bucky, and points up the hill to a stone outcropping, more rock forming a cave underneath. 

They haul each other up, climbing inside, where it’s surprisingly warm. Steve takes off his shirt, leaving his undershirt, and balls it up to use as a pillow. Bucky rests his head on Steve’s chest, and gripps his tank top. They can see the whole base from the cave, high on the hill above the treetops. Beyond, is a town, half destroyed by bombs, but still standing. 

“It’s nice up here.” Bucky comments, his voice echoing quietly off the back wall, sounding around the small space. 

“Yeah. Too bad we can’t spend more time here.” Steve sighs. He brings his hand up to twist through Bucky’s hair, playing with the short strands at the base of his neck. Bucky chuckles softly.

“May as well make the best of it then.” Steve is almost confused at his words, but then the brunette climbs on top of him, straddling his waist. Steve grins wickedly as he immediately goes to pull Bucky’s shirt down his shoulders. He sits up, holding Bucky in place by his hips, which have begun to grind down against him. Bucky slides his fingers under Steve’s undershirt, then up the toned stomach and chest, gathering the fabric on the way, stopping briefly to pinch at Steve’s nipples, which are hardening just the same as some other things. He finally lets go and slides the shirt off, before removing his own. 

“You’re beautiful. Did you know that?” Steve asks, a flirty smile on his face. 

“You only tell me every day.” Bucky retorts. Steve growls and flips them over, pinning Bucky to the ground. With his hands over his wrists, he begins to move his hands up slowly, a silent command for Bucky to leave his arms on the ground. Bucky twitches as Steve’s light touches tickle the skin on his arms, causing Steve to see if what he was doing was alright. Bucky gave a nod and Steve moved down, unbuttoning Bucky’s pants. He slipped his fingers under the edge of his boxers, then he quickly shoved them down, exposing Bucky’s excited member. 

Steve trailed kisses down from his navel, towards the inside of his thigh, giving Bucky a few strokes. 

“So beautiful.” Steve murmurs as he sinks his mouth down around Bucky’s length, precum drizzling out of the tip. Bucky gasps, and can’t help as his hands go to Steve’s head, holding him in place. His hips buck as Steve begins to move up and down, breathing deeply through his nose. 

He pulls off of him with a wet pop, saliva trailing from his lip all the way down. Even in the dim light, Steve can see how his lover’s eyes are almost black with lust. He’s sure his are the same. Bucky sits up, hooking his hands under Steve’s armpits, dragging him up to lay on top of him. Steve happily goes with him, but props himself on his elbows, hovering almost nose to nose. Eyes locked, Bucky snakes his hands between them to undo Steve’s pants, pushing them down his hips. 

Steve dives forward to kiss the life out of Bucky, nipping at his lip before going back down his neck. Bucky reaches around to give Steve a few experimental tugs, Steve hard and aching as he moans softly. The blond moves to prop up on just one arm, the other joining where Bucky’s hand lay. Steve pushes one finger into Bucky, bending his knuckle just slightly, enough to bring Bucky up as he arches his back into Steve, a gasp escaping his slack jaw. 

“God… Steve--” is all Bucky can manage to say, squirming slightly under him. Steve chuckles slowly, adding in a second, then third finger, twisting them to have Bucky gasp out his name the same way that he just did. 

Pulling his fingers out, Bucky wimpers, feeling empty at the loss of the touch. He is about to protest before he groans in ecstasy, Steve’s cock filling him up as he thrusts in almost to his base. 

“This feel good?” Steve asks, his voice low, thumb now rubbing slow circles on Bucky’s side. The brunette grins widely, before he grabs Steve’s free hand and presses his fingers to his lips, kissing each knuckle. 

“Shit, Steve… Please…” He whines. Steve takes that as his cue, and begins to move his hips back and forth, rocking them to the beat of each breath he took. Bucky’s breath skips, rattling as he takes the steamy cave air in. Bucky nearly breaks Steve’s hand as he grips it. 

“Please.” Bucky begs, pushing his hips up to get more force. Steve smiles and presses a kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth, nipping his lip on the way up. Bucky’s soft plea was everything Steve needed to start completely railing him, thrusts becoming slightly more erratic as he neared the edge. 

“Fuck, you’re so perfect… And so damn tight.” Steve growled in his ear, sucking on his earlobe. Bucky’s back arched up once more, nails dragging down Steve’s back, leaving long red welts. Bucky moans as he cums, his juices spraying over Steve’s abdomen. 

Voices just down the hill make them panic. They are far, but can be made out as the voices of Falsworth and Dougan coming closer. Steve’s head snaps up, and he pulls out quickly, fixing his pants and tugging his undershirt back on, Bucky scrapes his back on the wall of the cave as he shoots up, undershirt thrown on, then green base shirt, buttoning up until the last two. 

Steve is fixing his hair, looking wildly around for his shirt, to which Bucky throws it at him, hitting him in the face just as the two Commandos pop their heads into the mouth of the cave. Steve laughs and kicks the toe of Bucky’s boot from his spot on the opposite wall, unfolding his shirt to sling back over his broad shoulders. 

“Hey, Cap.” Dougan says, pulling himself in, nodding to the sergeant sitting on the opposite wall. Steve is just managing to control his laughter, and to regulate his breathing when Falsworth clambers in, Bucky shooting him a mad grin. 

“What’re you doing the whole way up here?” Dougan asks as he slumps against the wall next to him, twirling his bowler hat in his fingers. Falsworth leans against the wall next to Bucky, looking back and forth between the two brooklynites. 

“Just getting reacquainted.” Steve says, causing Bucky to snort, reciprocating Steve’s kick with one of his own. 

“What about you?” Bucky questions, brushing some dirt off his pants. 

_____

The train rattles under the soldiers, speeding through the snowy alps. Bullets fly and beams of blue light blaze, the fight hot. Steve’s feet are knocked out from under him, and he goes crashing into the floor, his shield bouncing away from him. 

Bucky picks it up and fires at the German soldier once, twice, three times, shield held in front of him. The soldier turns and fires, blasting dead center to the shield, blowing the brunette sideways and through a hole in the side of the train car. 

Steve’s eyes widen and he throws the metal disk with everything he has, contacting it to his chest, where he picks up the sound of ribs breaking through the armour. Before the disk hits the ground again, he has scrambled to the hole, reaching out shouting over the whipping wind. 

“Grab my hand!” He cries, chest constricting. Bucky reaches out, his fingers brushing his love’s. His face is riddled with terror, hand trembling, but he can’t reach.

The bar breaks and time stands still. Steve can only stare, paralized with fear, feeling his heart shatter.

Bucky falls away with a shout.

As he’s falling, Bucky shuts his mouth to silence his scream. He can’t let Steve hear him like this. He can’t let his last memory be of Bucky’s anguish. 

So he twists to his left, enough that his arm catches on a jagged rock ledge, shattering the bone and tearing at the flesh. The last thing he remembers is landing on his back, his head hitting the ground and knocking him out. 

And as he lays on the ground bleeding out, he smiles as his life plays before him. One. Last. Time.

_____

Steve staggers out of the debriefing, barely containing his emotions. He stops in the middle of the camp, mud splashing up and over his boots, contemplating on if he should go back to his tent. 

Unknown to him, the commandos watched him as he turned and wandered into the woods. Unknown to him, the commandos followed. 

Once he got deep enough into the trees, he stopped, scanning the snowy landscape ahead of him. He dropped heavily to his knees, sitting back on his heels, hands lay palm up on his thighs. The tears fell down his cheeks swifter than rivers, his entire body shaking. 

They say mighty oaks from little acorns grow. In this moment he had never felt lower. Someone had taken an ax to his heart and hacked away until he was nothing but splinters. His head dropped so his chin hit his chest. 

With a growl growing in the back of his throat, he unclipped the shield from his back and stood. 

Hidden behind a few trees, the commandos narrowed their eyes, watching for what he would do. They were afraid to move, to make noise. They were scared that their own heartbreak would be heard by their captain. 

With a yell, Steve threw his shield toward a tree, watching as it’s edge sliced right through and lodged in the tree behind. With a crash, the pine fell, shuddering the ground. He walked forward to his shield, and removed it from the wood, staring at the slice for a moment before he wound back and sent his fist to connect with it, splintering the trunk. 

He shook his bloody, probably broken hand, warding off the blossoming pain. He twisted on his heel so he could walk to the fallen tree, sitting on the trunk. 

The tears came hot and fast once more, falling like someone had just blown the Hoover dam. 

The shield slipped from his grasp and landed in the snow. He moved his now free hands to hold his head up with his elbows propped on his knees.

He couldn’t let the troops see him like this. With the snot threatening to spill from his nose, and the irregular breathing, cheeks red and puffy. 

Slowly, the commandos made their way from behind the trees, placing their hands on his shoulders. They sat next to him, they comforted him as best they could. 

_____

The screaming cockpit filled his head. The plane was headed for the ice, and Steve was glad. 

Long ago Bucky and Steve had promised each other that they would be with each other until the end of the line. And this was it. 

Bucky had gotten off, and that left Steve still on the train. Steve was giving his life to save the lives of countless people, and if he had to go, he would choose it no other way. And as Peggy’s voice crackled over the radio, he smiled.

The plane hit the ice and the radio signal cut. Steve was thrown from his seat, and as he was struck unconscious, his life played before his eyes. 

They say mighty oaks from little acorns grow. And maybe they were right. Maybe Steve was. 

glad to know you are mostly recovered from covid! if i may ask, could you describe how where your symptoms or at what pace you got them? the information i've got from both medical / govermental sources in my country is contradictory at times. also, what would you recommend drinking if i found myself to be with covid?

first off: WATER!!! drink water!!! I mean you can probably drink whatever as long as it’s moderately healthy and you’re staying hydrated (my drink of choice while sick is red gatorade. it has to be red or it doesn’t work though) but water is always a safe bet

also I’m happy to share my experience, just know that (1) I am not a doctor, just a professional Sick Person and (2) I never officially got tested thanks to a shortage of coronavirus tests in my area, but I’m pretty damn sure my symptoms were aligned with covid-19, so take that as you will

the first thing I noticed was a sore throat... but I have sore throats allll the time because of my other health issues, so I didn’t think much of it. I did start to notice my sore throat was getting better (from a previous mystery illness that knocked me out for a few days, and which I initially thought was strep but was probably just a bad cold) before suddenly getting bad again. I also had a day where my sore throat was especially pronounced and I had that Really Tired Feeling you get when you’re sick. I guess we can call that day one, but at this point I definitely didn’t think I had corona

that night I noticed some chest tightness, which I initially wrote off as an anxiety attack (and considering my extremely anxious personality and the fact that we were battening down the hatches for a pandemic, that seemed like a fair assumption) but using my inhaler didn’t help--in fact, it made the pain worse! but it did pass eventually, more or less, and I forgot about it

(side note here that if you think you have corona, do NOT use your albuterol inhaler or any kind of steroid inhaler unless you’re having a legit asthma attack with wheezing and all the works. using your inhaler can make the corona symptoms worse, but obviously if you need to use it then it’s important to keep using it. consult your doctor. also another similar note: if you think you have it, stay away from most NSAIDs if you can, as those can also make things worse. tylenol is okay though as long as you’re careful about the dosage--not as a corona thing, you just always need to be careful with tylenol dosage. and it’ll help keep your fever down, which is important!)

then over the next day or two I noticed the chest pain flare-ups but wrote those off as well. they were short-lived and mainly seemed to happen at night, but the inhaler always made them worse. around this time I also started experiencing some general GI upset for a few days (not to get too into that...), but I have a very touchy digestive track and was taking antibiotics at the same for other unrelated reasons, so I was like “well it’s probably nothing” but was starting to get worried.

then about five days later, the chest tightness really made itself present. like, it lasted all day and was constant. I was concerned but not immediately freaking out, and it was really windy that day so I kind of chalked it up to allergies, but as a very allergic person I’ve never had chest tightness like that from allergies (and my other allergic symptoms have improved considerably since I started allergy shots, so it would be weird to have a new symptom crop up out of nowhere like that).

then the next day, and the next day, the tightness wasn’t going away. this was clearly not allergies. I started to seriously think about corona tests, and I even called my primary care doctor, but she was extremely dismissive (all she did was call in a prescription for an old allergy drug that never even worked for me in the first place) and it was downright impossible to get tested. I was freaked out, but not entirely sure.

it’s about day seven at this point, and the chest tightness is in full swing. when I first wake up, the pain isn’t really present, but after about an hour of wakefulness my chest starts to get tight, congested, and kind of has that rattle-y feeling when it’s full of mucus and crap from the postnasal drip. not much congestion otherwise, but I’m so hopped up on antihistamines at all times that I don’t really get congested in general. the best way I can describe the chest tightness is that it feels like when I exert myself and my asthma makes my chest seize up and it’s hard to catch my breath (aka every single PE class I was ever forced to take as a kid), but my inhaler doesn’t do shit. my throat is still hurting pretty bad too and I feel vaguely fevery, but I don’t have a working thermometer at home. overall I just feel shitty, like that feeling you have when you know you’re sick (and I get sick a lot so I’m pretty well-versed in that lol). for quarantine purposes, this is the day I’ve been counting as the “first day” of having obvious corona symptoms, but it was really predated by the things I described above.

several days pass like this, I keep trying to get tested and call all sorts of places but it’s all dead ends. I also develop a slight cough, which mostly comes in bursts or when I speak/eat. by day twelve I manage to get a primary care appointment, and they do an EKG to make sure it’s not cardiac pain (the EKG came back fine) and a throat swab to see if it’s something bacterial (it’s not). they do confirm I’m running a slight fever, although my body temperature is usually so low that even a fever of 99 is high for me. my primary care doc basically tells me to fuck off and stay home, which I was already planning on doing. she also didn’t even wear a mask or gloves to look into my throat, despite the fact that all the other nurses in the practice were wearing masks and gloves when they interacted with patients... so I’m not exactly full of confidence in her judgement here.

the night of day thirteen, the day after seeing my doctor, I have a night where I can’t sleep because my airway feels restricted (both in my chest and my actual throat being swollen from pain). I used my inhaler, like a fool, and when the inhaler didn’t help the first time I tried using it two more times. big mistake! I ended up lying awake gasping for air, taking huge gulps just to feel like I was getting the teeniest bit of oxygen, and feeling stabbing pain when I took these deep breaths. I was too afraid to sleep and almost made my girlfriend drive me to the ER but I hate going to the ER so instead I just tried to calm down until I got exhausted enough to fall asleep around dawn. I also kept alternating between sweating buckets and shivering to death, no matter how I kept adjusting the temperature and my blankets, so I assume I was having a crazy fever that night.

the next day, roughly day fourteen, I decided to suck it up and go to the ER to get a chest x-ray. they said my x-ray looked fine, which was encouraging (hopefully no permanent lung damage there), and they took a flu swab and a strep swab just to rule those out (both negative, of course). at least two other people were there with me in the ER complaining of similar symptoms, but they didn’t have any tests for us so the doctor just told me to go home, act as if I had it, and keep taking tylenol and drinking water. this doctor is also the one who told me to stop using my inhaler--and the fact that my inhaler kept making the pain worse is one of the things that really tips me off here that I probably had it.

things are pretty much uneventful for the next week: still having a tight chest, a fever that seems to come and go, sore throat, cough. no more crazy attacks like that one night.

by day nineteen (yesterday) I start to notice a bit of improvement in my chest pain. it’s not gone, but it’s not as bad and I’ll have slight reprieves from the tightness. today is day twenty (more or less, my numbers are a little rough here) and I actually felt okay most of the day. by the evening the tightness returned and I’m still coughing every now and then, but far less often. I think the fever is gone and my throat doesn’t hurt too bad, either! I’m well past the point of being contagious, so I actually went to the grocery store today and got a few things. I’m not totally out of the woods yet, but I think (knock on fucking wood) the worst has passed.

anyway, I hope my anecdote is helpful for you, and I hope you stay safe and healthy!

@lilmissperfectlyimperfect @oops-metoo @awkwardalbatros

Chapter 3

As much as Grace tried to forget about her weird feelings, the subject of them kept texting her.

Ajay: So, remember how we talked about theatre?

Grace felt like she should respond, but it was an early morning, the sun was shining through her window just right, and she didn’t want to bother to turn off her BiPap. None of this actually prevented her from responding, because she’d fallen asleep with her phone just out of reach on her bed, but she was grasping for excuses. Eventually, she caved.

Grace: Yeah?

It sounded a little hostile, and she wanted to take it back almost as soon as she’d sent it. To his credit, though, Ajay appeared to ignore it.

Ajay: This summer, I’m directing the musical Ragtime at Cedar Cove Community Theatre.

Grace: That’s nice, Ragtime is one of my favorite soundtracks.

Ajay: It’s only been a few rehearsals, but it’s been going very well so far. Skye’s my stage manager, and Rory plays Coalhouse, of course.

Grace: Naturally. They’ve got the baritone for it.

She wasn’t surprised at all. Back in middle school choir, she could always hear Rory’s booming, deep voice from the baritone section across the room. They had always had a talent for singing that Grace was envious of. She had been a good singer herself, but her flooded lungs made things much more difficult.

Ajay: I’m still trying to find someone to do lights, though. It wouldn’t be hard, because Skye’s already set the lights up in the right configurations. 

Grace narrowed her eyes at her phone.

Grace: Are you trying to recruit me?

Ajay: Is it that obvious?

Grace: Why? I don’t have any experience.

Ajay: Skye can teach you everything you need to know, and of course I’ll let you know what I think about your lighting decisions.

Grace: Your criticism sounds terrifying.

Despite the sentiment in her text, she laughed a little. She allowed herself to fantasize, for a moment, working tech on Ragtime. She imagined herself up in the cramped booth, with Skye teaching her the controls and Ajay standing over her chair, supervising. She thought of having a headset and hearing his voice in her ear, telling her to correct one of the spotlights or change the color of the backlighting.

She thought about Skye’s small voice calling cues, and Rory’s strong one singing the songs that made her tear up just from the pure emotion. It seemed almost too good to be true, and she told Ajay so.

Grace: It just seems too good to be true.

Ajay: It can be grueling work. During tech week, we’ll be there all day and into the night. You’ll get frustrated, angry, bored to tears, but you’ll also never be happier in your entire life than you will be on opening night.

Grace: I still don’t understand why you want me, but sure. I’ll do it, but you have to promise to let me quit when I mess up too much.

Ajay: I have the utmost faith in you. And if you mess up, I’ll just blame it on Rory.

Grace: Fine, fine. When’s the next rehearsal?

Ajay: Today, noon to six for techs. I can pick you up around 11 and we can get food beforehand, if you’d like.

Dammit, there goes that feeling again, Grace thought as her heart warmed up without her permission. 

Grace: Fine by me. See you then.

She checked the time, she had about three more hours until he’d be there. Begrudgingly, she unhooked her BiPap and set up her oxygen, making sure to hook one of the bigger tanks up to her cart. That one should last her all day. She left her room and ambled down the hall to where her family was eating breakfast. They all looked up at her in surprise.

“What?” she asked defensively. “I do stuff too, you know.”

“If by ‘stuff’ you mean ‘sit on the couch watching America’s Most Eligible’, then of course you do,” James said. Grace gave him the best stink eye she could muster.

“Want some breakfast?” her mom asked, quickly standing up and abandoning her own plate of perfectly-cooked fluffy pancakes.

“Sure,” she said, sitting down at the table across from James.

“What brings you out of your cave this early?” James asked. Grace shot him another death glare.

“I got roped into helping with a theatre production,” she said.

Her mom turned around from the pancakes sizzling on the stove. “Oh, that’s great, Gracie! You used to love theatre. I’m glad you’re getting involved again.”

“Don’t get used to it. I told the director he has free reign to make me leave when I inevitably ruin his show.”

“Hm, director. Is that by any chance the handsome gentleman who dropped you off last night?”

Grace ducked her head, her cheeks quickly warming. James saw her reaction, and quickly started teasing her.

“Yeah, I thought you were going to dinner with the Silvas,” he said. “What gives?”

“I was rude during support group, and I didn’t want to see Mrs. Silva’s disappointed face.”

“Grace,” her father admonished. “You shouldn’t be rude to her. She’s one of the few people who really knows what you’re going through.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. So anyways, I didn’t want to go with them but I had already told James not to pick me up, then Ajay asked if I needed a ride home.”

“Took you an awful long time to get home,” James mentioned. Grace glared at him.

“We got lunch and talked, normal stuff.”

“Oh, now that you say it, I think I know who this guy is. Honey,” he asked, appealing to his wife, “Isn’t that the kid who helped Mrs. Silva?”

“With the school play last year? Oh, yes, I think so! He’s a very talented director.”

“Can we stop talking about this?” Grace asked, making pleading eyes at her mother as she dropped a generous helping onto Grace’s plate.

The family begrudgingly agreed, and the talk changed to one of James’ upcoming summer league soccer games. Once Grace got up from the table to clear her plate, though, James followed.

“I didn’t even know you liked guys,” he said in a low tone, trying not to attract the attention of their parents. 

Grace could only shrug. “I dunno,” she said. “I really haven’t had much time to like anyone. I might be misreading the feelings.”

“I don’t think so,” James said. “Looks like a classic schoolgirl crush to me.”

Grace hit him with the rag she was using to clean her dishes.

“Go away, I need to get ready. He’s picking me up at 11.”

James wiggled his eyebrows at her, but retreated before she could hit him again.

After she wrestled with her wig for an hour and freaked out about her outfit and makeup for another, she got a text from Ajay letting her know he was in her driveway.

Ajay: I’m here, but no rush. Just a bit early.

Grace quickly threw on an oversized knit cardigan and escaped her room, oxygen cart in tow. When she made it out into the kitchen, her entire family was staring at her.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” her father said, being the first one to recover. “It’s just… you haven’t gone out in a while.”

“Be careful,” her mom said. “And tell Ajay that he’s welcome here for dinner after rehearsal.”

Several retorts crossed through her minds, sharp words that she knew from muscle memory. She could see the way her family’s hesitant smiles would drip off their faces into the masks that she knew they only wore for her. Ordinarily, she would’ve let those words fly off her tongue, but…

She was just so tired. Tired of her own happiness always being a battle. There wasn’t much she could do about it, but she could let herself have this. A new friend, a new hobby, and maybe something that took a little weight off her parents’ shoulders.

So she ducked her head, letting a small smile cross her face, and nodded. Then she turned around and left the house.

Ajay was waiting for her in his stupid sports car right out front, and once he saw her, he looked confused but played it off masterfully.

“Nice hair,” he said once she’d gotten buckled in.

“Hmm, thanks,” she said, avoiding looking at him. 

“Special occasion?”

“Pretending I’m someone I’m not,” she said. 

“Fair enough,” he replied, backing out of the driveway and onto the main road. “I don’t think anyone at the theatre except for Rory and Skye even know that I only have one and a third legs. They might just think I have a bad knee or something, and that’s why I use the cane.”

“Little do they know,” Grace said. “Lucky you, that you can hide it.” She tugged self-consciously at her cannula. No matter if she wore a wig, if she slathered concealer under her eyes, the cannula meant she’d always look sick.

“Just tell them you have asthma,” Ajay said after a few seconds of thought. “And if they give you any grief, I’ll threaten to kick them out of the show.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Grace argued.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t kick them out. I spent far too long choosing the perfect cast and crew for this show. But they don’t know that.”

Grace rolled her eyes.

Thirty minutes, two take-out burgers, and a couple miles later, the two sat inside Ajay’s car in the parking lot of Cedar Cove Community Theatre. Ajay’s feet were kicked up on the dash as he finished off his fries, but Grace felt a little too self-conscious in the fancy car to do something like that.

“So Skye will be a better person to tell you what to do, but essentially you’ll be sitting in the house with her and I. I have your predecessor’s notebook, he made some notes on the first few scenes we blocked before he left, and I’ll give that to you once we go in. You’ll make notes on lighting that might look good, and she and I will both give you some pointers there.”

“And if I mess up?”

“We’ll fix it.”

Grace narrowed her eyes. “It seems like you guys can handle this on your own. Why do you want me there?”

It was a challenge, and they both sensed it. Ajay looked like he wanted to say something, but something in Grace’s expression must have changed his mind, because he just shrugged and looked away.

“We need someone to operate the light board, at the very least.”

Grace felt disappointment and relief all at once. As much as his answer had made her heart sink, she had been more scared to hear his actual reasoning.

“I think I can manage that,” she said, barbs returning to her tone. Pushing him away was natural territory, and so was sitting on Skye’s other side when rehearsal started. 

Ajay had been right-- there really wasn’t much to do. Her predecessor had already given her a sense of how to draw out the blocking diagrams, and Skye told her that was all she really could do during blocking rehearsals, since Ajay was so prone to changing things around. Occasionally, one or the other of them would whisper a suggestion for a spotlight or a fade out to her, and she’d dutifully scribble it down. It wasn’t difficult work, but she tackled it with more focus than she’d tackled anything in months.

The scenes crawled by, Ajay criticizing more details than Grace could even notice. He’d adjust the angle Rory was facing the audience with, and would tweak it for five full minutes until he was happy. Skye wrote everything down until her copy of the script had more eraser shavings on it than actual words.

Watching them work was intoxicating for Grace. They were like a well-oiled machine, catching every tiny thing wrong with a hand gesture or a prop placement and shifting it until everything just fit. There was no other way to describe it. On first run through the scene would be good, but something was always missing. Ajay’s job, Grace realized, was to find that thing. Skye’s was to record it for posterity. And they were good at it.

By the time he finally called for a fifteen minute break, Grace was overwhelmed. While Ajay patrolled the theater, possibly in search of that missing something, Skye noticed Grace’s internal struggle.

“Want to go somewhere quiet?” she asked.

Grace nodded quickly, and stood up as fast as she could without passing out.

Skye’s lips curled into a small, nearly invisible smile, and then she led the way to the tech loft.

It was on top of a rather nasty set of stairs, but with Skye close behind and carrying Grace’s tank, it was bearable. Once they got to the loft, though, Grace sat heavily in the closest chair and caught her breath. Skye sat carefully across from her, looking out onto the stage.

“This is the booth,” she said. “It’s where we’ll be during performances. You, me, and the sound guy.”

Grace cringed at the thought of having to climb those stairs every night. Once again, she cursed her stupid lungs. Why couldn’t they just work?

“How did you… get started… here?” Grace choked out. 

Skye ignored the coughing, which Grace was grateful for. 

“Needed to get out of the house,” she said. “I’m head tech at Berry, so it’s something I’m good at already. I danced some before I got sick, but after I went into remission I was too weak to do that, so I started poking around in the tech booth, and here we are.”

“You had leukemia, right?”

Skye nodded once. “ALL,” she said. “Pretty much the easiest cancer to cure.”

“Chemo can’t have been fun, though. Especially being young like you were.”

“Eleven when I was diagnosed,” Skye admitted, lowering her eyes. “It wasn’t. Less so when my parents decided to use me as a guilt weapon against their competitors.”

Grace furrowed her brows. “What?”

“Nothing,” Skye said, her face blank again. Grace recognized the trick; she also knew how to turn her features into a mask at the slightest provocation. Skye had let something slip that she’d rather keep private. “Just frustrated. Don’t worry about it.”

Grace let it go with a nod, and Skye turned back to the light board, pulling the dust cover off.

“This is your station. Basically, this is how you’ll get the right lights turned on and off.”

Skye held out a thick book for Grace to take. “The manual,” she explained. “It’ll be easier if you’re familiar with it.”

“Well, I don’t have much else to do,” Grace muttered under her breath. Skye heard her, and she arched a single thin eyebrow. Grace swore she saw the hint of a smile on her dark lips. That ghost of a smile filled her with a sense of belonging, a sense of home there in the foreign booth. She never wanted it to stop.

Grace and Skye talked over the board and lighting operations, soft voices filling the small booth, until Skye looked over at the clock. 

“Time to go back,” she said. Grace sighed.

“It’s too overwhelming down there. Can’t I just stay up here with you?”

Skye seemed to soften a little bit.

“I wish,” she said. “But we have a lot of work to do.”

Grace rolled her eyes, but took the hand that Skye offered her to help her up. Before Skye turned fully around, though, she bit her lip and looked directly at Grace.

Since the other girl was still holding her hand, the effect was a little overwhelming. Grace resisted the urge to step back, and instead stared right back into Skye’s blue eyes.

“I know this is all kind of intense,” Skye said softly. “But it really helped me. Maybe it’ll help you, too.”

Help me? I don’t need help, Grace immediately wanted to fire back, but she closed her mouth just in time to keep the words from escaping. 

Skye seemed to recognize her mistake, but Grace shrugged both the words and the person who’d said them off with a tight nod, She carried her own oxygen down the stairs, even though it took her twice as long as if she’d accepted help. 

It seemed like everything she did these days was to prove a point. 

As soon as Grace made that realization, fatigue washed over her. It wasn’t the ordinary, sick-person fatigue, but a social fatigue. She didn’t like having to keep these walls up all the time. 

Rehearsal continued at a turtle-like pace, but Grace found the entire process a little mesmerizing. It was like watching a tower being built, starting with the foundation.

Hours later, the clock struck six and Skye wrapped up rehearsal, reminding the actors about when to be off book.

“...And I’ll send out an email with notes tonight,” she concluded. With that, everyone stood up. Ajay stretched out and pulled his blazer back on; he’d shed it sometime during a big group scene.

“Need a ride home?” he asked Grace.

“Yup,” she replied, shaking her legs out before standing up. “Oh, and before I forget, my parents invited you to dinner.”

Ajay’s face lit up. “Really?”

“Mm-hmm,” Grace replied, trying not to look at him. His smile inexplicably made her want to smile too.

“That’s great. I was dreading going back home and facing my mom’s boyfriend. I’d love to come.”

“Good, they’ll be happy,” Grace said noncommittally. The wave of fatigue washed over her again. It was taking effort to appear bored, to pretend like she was uninterested in the world. Even her face muscles just wanted to let loose and smile back, and her brain was a little curious about how Ajay would react. But she suppressed it. No sense getting entangled in whatever this was.

Twenty minutes later, the two were walking up the front path to Grace’s house. They both took their shoes off on the porch before heading inside.

Grace’s mom caught sight of them immediately and abandoned her cooking, wiping her hands on an apron before walking up to them. She and Ajay shook hands.

“You must be Ajay,” she said. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Lee,” Ajay said, a polite smile on his face. “You have a lovely home, and the cooking smells wonderful.”

Grace rolled her eyes, but her mom seemed pleased.

“You’re very kind. And call me Rita, please. I have to go back to cooking, but Grace will show you around.”

“I will?” Grace asked, half-joking.

“Unless you want to cook,” she said. “Your father was called for dinner service, so it’s just the four of us tonight.”

Grace said nothing as guilt grew in her heart. She knew full well the only reason he worked such long, hard hours was to pay her medical bills. He hated missing family dinner, and here he was missing it again because of her.

Her mom had gone back to cooking, but Ajay had noticed the darkness growing behind her eyes.

“Come on,” he said, “You’re supposed to be showing me around.”

Snapped out of her guilt spiral, Grace nodded and stepped into the living room.

“Living room, kitchen, dining room, bathroom,” she said in a monotone voice, pointing to each room as they went. “My parents’ room and James’ room are both upstairs, but mine’s down here because stairs are kind of hard for me.”

“Understandable,” Ajay said. “Can I see it?”

“My room?”

“Yes. I think one can tell a lot about someone from their room.”

“You’re going to psychoanalyze my bedroom. Why did I invite you over?”

He laughed, and she rolled her eyes even though his laugh made her want to giggle. It definitely made her blush.

“Alright, then,” she mumbled, and led the way to her room.

It wasn’t much, a small but bright room with pink paint on the walls and her bed nestled into the corner. She hadn’t really had much cause or means to decorate the walls, but the floor and bed were covered in books, and her laptop laid open on the bed.

“Interesting,” Ajay said, looking around the small room.

“Interesting?”

“It kind of looks like mine, honestly,” he said. “Save for the paint. Mine’s green. And my books are a little more organized than yours.”

“So what are you learning about me from that? That I’m clumsy and messy?”

“Sure,” he said, leaning against her door frame, “but also that you’re a big nerd.”

“Nerd?” she asked, nearly laughing from surprise. “How do you figure that?”

“The sheer number of books is a dead giveaway,” he said, and then he crossed over to her bed before she could stop him and picked up a thick book with a blue cover. “And does any non-nerd read about advanced differential equations for fun?”

Grace’s cheeks turned red, and she moved to sit down in her desk chair because she was getting a little tired from standing for so long.

“You got me there. I’m a closeted math nerd.”

“I can tell,” Ajay remarked, flipping through the book. “How can you stand this stuff? I barely passed trig.”

“I don’t know, I just like it. Maybe I have a brain for math.”

“You and my mother,” he said. “She’s a math and physics professor at the community college.”

“I think I would’ve gone into physics,” Grace said. “You know, if I’d stayed in school and stuff.”

“Would’ve? There’s no reason you can’t still.”

“No college is going to accept a high school dropout, Ajay.”

Ajay furrowed his eyebrows. “You can get your GED, though,” he said. “It’s just a test. I’ll help you study for it, but if you can understand this stuff then you’re definitely smart enough to pass.”

“I don’t know.” Grace didn’t want to plan too much for the future. Especially because she most likely didn’t have one. “Maybe,” she said, just to get him to stop talking about it.

He put the book back down on her bed. Just as he opened his mouth to say something, his expression curiously soft, a knock at the door frame startled them both.

James stood there, a shit-eating grin on his face and mischief in his eyes.

“James!” Grace said, surprised. “I didn’t even know you were home.”

“I wasn’t until now. Hi, Ajay. Nice to officially meet you.”

Ajay nodded. “Yes, good to meet you. How’s your summer been?”

“Oh, it’s been fine,” James said. “Mostly summer league baseball. But Grace makes me marathon America’s Most Eligible with her when I have free time.”

“You like AME?” Ajay asked incredulously as Grace shot James a death glare.

“She loves it,” James said before Grace could say anything to defend herself. “She’ll watch entire seasons in one sitting, it’s actually impressive.”

“Shut up!” Grace managed, shoving James with the small amount of strength she had. Ajay just laughed.

“You continue to surprise me, Grace.”

“Anyways, Mom says dinner’s ready,” James said, then disappeared from the door frame.

“We’d better go,” Grace said, “or else he’ll eat everything and leave nothing for us.”

Ajay extended a hand to help Grace up. 

“Who’s your favorite? On AME?”

Grace stared at him.

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “We all have our vices, Grace.”

Dinner went by uneventfully, Grace’s mom somehow knowing which questions to steer clear of. After the sun finally set, Grace walked Ajay out to his car.

“Thank your mother for dinner for me,” he said.

“You already thanked her five times, but I’ll tell her again.”

“It never hurts to be too polite. It’s important that I impress your parents.”

That statement confused Grace. “Wait, why?”

“Oh, never mind,” Ajay said, brushing the question off. Grace let it go, but she really wanted to know why he’d wanted her parents to like him. So she just squinted at him.

“I should go,” he said, patting the top of his car absent-mindedly. 

“Thanks for coming over,” Grace said. “It was nice.”

Ajay’s smile reemerged, lighting up the dusk. “It was. See you later?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “Monday, right?”

He nodded. “Goodbye, Grace.”

With that, he got into his car. Grace almost felt disappointed as he drove off, but she couldn’t understand quite why.

I’m so tired... Like, I’m at my mental limit. I don’t really know how to handle things right now and it’s just... exhausting.

I should make it clear, I don’t intend on hurting myself by any means... I’m just exhausted.

Maybe this post is my way of putting it all down might help me make sense of it so the thoughts are no longer floating around my head and haunting me.

Since this Quarantine has started, these are the events that have gone down in my life:

- Haven’t had a paycheck since November 2019 due to injury at work. Was never actually allowed back to work. Spent 2 months after recovery calling in again and again to be put back on the schedule.

- Been waiting for Unemployment to finally approve my financial help since March 16th, 2020. I’ve called over 300 times, spent over 100 hours in the online chat queue, and sent over 50 of the “offline” messages.

- On the topic of unemployment, I’m missing SIX weeks of Certification for payments. All of April is just... missing, so is half of May.

- My claim pinged as potentially being associated with that huge International Crime Ring incident. 3 weeks of NOT missing payments are currently being held until my identity is “proven.” I’ve been waiting over a week for my paperwork regarding this to be approved.

- My cat got sick, he can barely open one of his eyes.

- Car needed $900 in repairs.

- Got an interview, because I have a bad cough right now, I essentially lost the interview because of Corona. I understand the employer has to be careful. I can’t be mad at them. I’m just frustrated.

- I’ve gotten THREE job rejections because I didn’t have enough Customer Service experience. I have over TEN years of experience, plus two years of store manager experience.

- Medical Bills that rely on me having either a job or this unemployment to pay them are still sitting on my credit card and I just keep getting more and more interest because I put the bills on my cards so at least I wouldn’t have collections after my ass.

- I need to get a Pulmonary Functions test to address the problem with my lungs (the cough mentioned earlier.) The doctor thinks it’s asthma exacerbated by the high pollen content in the air and heat. But I can’t get the test right now because the specific labs I need in my area aren’t open yet (also because of Corona.)

- The Quarantine has also happened.

- Breathing is hard enough as it is, but wearing masks not only builds up heat on my face and makes me both light-headed and dizzy, but it’s hard to breathe through them. But I keep wearing them because I don’t want to be seen as one of those reckless assholes who thinks my “freedoms” are more important than the health of those around me. I don’t want to take away from people who have a diagnosed problem that makes wearing a mask for them impossible.

- The world is on fire because people still can’t seem to grasp that racism is bad.

I can’t do anything to fix any of these problems or even make any sort of headway. I’m so mentally exhausted. I can’t get on twitter or turn on the news or go outside without hearing more horrible, gut-wrenching things about what is happening to the people of this country. I was barely handling my mental health in February when my job essentially abandoned me because I got a bad Concussion.

Every time I think I’m getting a little better, it all crashes down on me again and I find myself facing more and more sleepless nights and the depression presses in until I feel numb.

I can’t join protests because I don’t know what is wrong with my lungs, close crowds give me high anxiety, and not being able to breathe would make me a liability to those around me. I don’t have much money so the most I’ve been able to donate to causes is a few dollars. I’ve signed petitions. I’ve tried to reblog or retweet things that seem accurate and legitimate...

But I’ve also been avoiding social media as much as I can because I’m just so tired...

Then when I do... I begin to hate and loathe myself because I have no right to take a break. I shouldn’t have a right. If I’m capable of dragging myself out of bed, I should be doing more... Those are the messages I’m constantly assaulted with if I see messages about people needing to take a break to recharge or step back and it’s just. Exhausting.

I don’t know what to do anymore... I’m still trying. I’m still trying as hard as I can.

Some days I just... don’t even want to get out of bed right now...

But... I promise I won’t hurt myself. I promise. I just need...

I don’t know. I really don’t know what I need right now. But what “I” need feels so small and irrelevant compared to the world’s needs. It makes me feel selfish.

Depression sucks.

Caelus

A/N: This is my entry (super late yet again) for @ruckystarnes Summer of AUs challenge! And for a lack of inspiration, the titlte is space in latin! loll I had an inital idea when I signed up but this honestly took me so long to grasp and then it just poured out! So here it is, thank you for being so patient love! 💖 Beta: babyboo @eyesfixedonthesun22 Warnings: language, smut, gay sex, mention of blood  Word count: 5714 Prompt: Space AU, Stucky

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“Steve, you jackass! Come back!” There’s no point in yelling twice. Bucky knows. But his best friend is storming towards the recruiting line-up with a mighty will. When they had denied him to join the army, Steve jumped on every last occasion to prove himself.

Not two weeks ago, Stark Industries announced a new advanced project that would allow a select group of candidates to participate in a space camp tryout. They’d be secluded into experimental ships, given some basic training and then experts would monitor their behavior, their reactions to simulated situations. If they made it out alive - and sane - a month later, they’d be taken to Stark’s secret facility and given proper training and instructions. Every boy in New York reached out like little kids given the gift of their lives.

So Bucky is standing there in the busy streets of Brooklyn, arms up in disbelief. The sick boy was going to go against the odds once more. He was a foot shorter than the men around him. Arms frail, and thrown into an asthma attack once he reached the building. Security threatened to keep him out - much to his safety - but Steven Grant Rogers does not back down because of some disability.

“I swear to God,” Bucky mumbles under his breath as he begins to make his way towards the atroupment of testosterone. 

“There’s no reason for me to be doing less than these men!” Comes as a shout out of Steve’s mouth. He’s red and Bucky isn’t sure if it’s the rage or yet another one of his problems surfacing.

“Come on, buddy. Let’s go home,” he tries to reason with him.

“No Buck! Don’t you get it?” Steve turns back to the guard. “I’ll fucking die anyway! Might as well it be doing something important…” His face winces at the thought; he’d never mentioned his illness as something so weighing, so dark.

“Steve…” He brings his hand to his best pal’s shoulder as he tries to comfort him. “Your value isn’t measured with what you can do for the world. You take care of me and that’s plenty.” Steve sighs and accepts defeat.

“Fine,” he looks into Bucky’s eyes, tears of anger filling his own, “I guess we can go.”

They turn towards the street and start walking home. As he looks over his shoulder at the line of people still hoping to get a shot, he sees a strange man scribbling down a notepad, looking at the two of them leave with a smile. Round glasses frame his face, he hasn’t shaved in a week. From his outfit and his demeanor Bucky knows he’s German. He shrugs it off and turns his attention back to his friend, throwing his arm around his neck.

It’s a week later when a knock at the door startles the boys out of their sleep. It must be around three in the morning, as far as Steve can tell. He turns on the lamp on his nightstand and looks over at Bucky in annoyance.

“Jerks,” he whispers as he recalls the nights of torment the kids from the neighbourhood had him endure - it was the reason Bucky had moved in with him.

“Let me take care of it,” the dark haired man replies. 

“Bucky, stop. I can take care of myself.”

“See, the thing is, you don’t have to.” He shakes his shoulder before walking over to the door. There’s a paper taped to it, bright and clear texts surround a pointy, metal ship image. There’s the Stark logo on it, and it makes him shiver in excitement.

“Steve…” He trails. “Get your ass over here.”

He hands him the poster and gives him a minute to read. It begins to tremble in his hands when he reaches the last sentence: “We are glad to announce that you have been selected to participate in an experimental camp supervised by the Stark Industries.”

There’s a place and time for them to be the next day, and they spend the rest of the night getting their luggage ready, along with making up stories and tripping out over the opportunity.

*

The rustic walls of brick have transformed into sterile steel. The floors are made of a plastic-like material - something easy to clean, Steve notices. It would be impossible to reach the ceiling and he’s wondering how they even managed to build this facility anyway. It’s highly distinct from the level of ingenuity of the current construction standards. The white building stands out absurdly in its secluded forest location.

Robots roam around, tacking and bolting steel plates to one another. Prototypes of deadly weapons are hung on the walls as they walk behind a seductive lady to what they presume is the reception. Their stuff, along with themselves, go through metal detectors - something they had only heard of until now - before making their way to a large office.

“Good evening, boy.” There’s a thick accent to the greeting, one that both can easily distinguish. “I hope we haven’t given you too much trouble.”

“Not at all, um...” Bucky begins, words failing him as he’s still processing the amount of discoveries they are about to do. He sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping.

“I’m Dr. Erskine. Responsible of the Biological Enhancement department here at Stark Industries. This here is Lady Carter, she’ll be assisting you on your journey.” The voluptuous woman nods their way and it has them both swallowing hard. She has a confidence they had never witnessed, and it has them nearly humiliating themselves.

“Nice to meet you,” Steve manages to say as he struggles to gain composure. He hopes she doesn’t notice him drying his palms on the back of his pants.

“Likewise,” she says. Her British accent runs a shiver up Bucky’s spine.

“Now, we wouldn’t want to keep you up too late. If you please follow Miss Carter to your assigned pod. We’ll go through the logistics in the morning.” The German man hands them a pair of overalls; nothing flattering, Bucky thinks.

*

It takes only three weeks for the boys to be fully independent, allowing them to be part of the first team to launch the program. Their uniforms along with their tools and weapons get a significant upgrade. They’re already anticipating the look of their new quarters.

“Can’t believe we’re doing this,” Steve mentions.

“Really? After twenty-something attempts I would highly believe that you’d be given a chance,” Bucky answers with a hint of sarcasm. They both laugh until a voice requests them to be at the main quarter in the next ten minutes.

The spaceship is a hundred feet tall or so, its body is quite narrow and it feels pretty sturdy. They gulp nonetheless, this would be for real and they couldn’t just drop out with a snap of their fingers. The team of eight wait by the cabin door, ably putting on their masks and equipment.

“This is it!” Bucky shouts.

“We’ve been working so hard for this. Maybe a few years after this we’ll be able to finally see what Earth looks like from up there.” Doug, who’d been the fittest one of them until he took Bucky under his wing and made him an even bigger beast, contemplates the unimaginable. 

“Remember when just last year they presented the concept of flying cars and it failed. Seems like they were either lying to us or they made phenomenal progress since then…” Bucky remembers his astonishment after the Stark Expo; he was always a fan of progress and technology used for the good of the population. This journey would be an experiment of a life-time.

“Alright everyone settle in.” The German accent demands over the intercom. The small group walks into the ship and find their respective seats. With his wit and quick thinking, Steve was assigned board commander. Bucky was in charge of the combat tactics. It felt like, for once, their lives had meaning and it was an honour to be going through this together.

“‘Til the end of the line.” Steve captures his friend’s hand in his.

“‘Til the end of the line,” Bucky answers. They feel the ship ‘shake off the ground’, and the team howls in enthusiasm. 

Once the orbiting procedures are done, they find their way into their seperate quarters, each sharing rooms in teams of three, except for Bucky and Steve who have the room to just the two of them. They walk to the door as they chit chat. Their smiles fade when the door slides before them and they notice the size of the room.

A large window gives out to a realistic CGI galaxy. The moon roams by slowly and it’s enough to have them holding their breaths, eyes watering at the beauty. 

“Steve,” Bucky whispers. He turns to see his friend nodding at him, his lower lip bitten as he tries to hold in his emotions. “This wouldn’t have happened without your stubborn little head.” 

“You deserve this as much as I do Buck.” They turn around and freeze at the sight of the one king sized bed that sits right in the middle of the room. Around it is a flowy drape they can pull closed - something to keep the sun out as it never sets, they think. At the corner of his eyes, Steve can see Bucky blush. His body shivers, his numerous dreams coming to his mind again.

“Is, um. Is that okay with you?” He asks.

“Yeah. Yeah it’s fine Stevie.” He walks over and sets his bag on a small bench. They begin to set their things in the abundant storage space. Neither of them talk for the next couple of minutes, too shy, perhaps. Too caught in their own fantasies to acknowledge their separate peaks at the one bed as they eyeball the distance that will be left between them.

“I’m exhausted. I’ll hit the showers and be right back.” Bucky is first to say, a foot already out the door.

Steve sheds his clothes, leaving only his briefs on. The sheets are the softest thing he’s ever touched. Everything is plushy and so welcoming. There’s Bucky’s sweatshirt on the left side pillow; he’s tempted to take it and wear it, knowing he’s always cold at night. But he only pulls it close and brings it to his face, feeling the material on his heating cheeks, inhaling the masculinity of his best friend. It’s inevitable he’s growing hard at the thought of being able to smell it directly from his neck. To have his head on his chest. 

His free hand reaches under the band of his briefs, tentatively groping himself to try and relieve some tension. He loses himself in it though, and starts moving and twisting his hand faster. He’s staining his underwear but he doesn’t care. He knows Bucky’s hand would feel much better, much more unforgiving. There’s a pinch in his gut at the thought of teaching him all his sweet spots - or worse even, letting him discover them as he becomes a panting mess on this very bed. 

“Shit,” he whimpers into the balled up sweater. His hips find a slow rhythm to go along his hand movements. His dick is out of its hiding spot by now; he’s big for his frame and he needs the extra room to pump harder. The door opens but he’s too lost to notice. There’s another muffled moan before he hears someone clear their throat.

“Steve, I-”

“Fuck! I’m sorry.” No no no! he thinks. “Buck I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine Rogers, just... Maybe finish in the bathroom?” He suggests with an uncomfortable smile. He’s scratching his scalp, looking anywhere around the room but the bed. When Steve doesn’t budge, he allows himself to look down. His friend had simply pulled the cover over his head, and he knows Steve is cursing himself for being careless.

“You can keep the hoodie, if you’re cold.” Steve nods no and doesn’t move. “Alright,” he adds before shuffling into his spot. He’s careful to stay along the edge of the bed, enough not to fall off but granting his friend personal space. He closes his eyes and tries to let his mind wander into sleep. It’s no use now that he’s seen his pal touching himself like that. Not that he’d never imagined it - he was much smaller in his mind though. He didn’t sound as heavenly either. Bucky had caught Steve jerking off already, their apartment being quite small for two people, but it was always discreet and he mostly had to spy on him to see anything.

The more he thinks about it, the more each scenario comes out clear. Steve had touched himself whenever they had been close, like when they got back home from the drive-in, or if Bucky walked around shirtless after a rather intense training. Steve had touched himself every time he felt bothered with Bucky’s presence, and fuck if that wasn’t something he’d dreamed about.

He inhales deeply before shifting to face Steve. His hand slowly lifts and comes to rest on his friend’s shoulder, which surprisingly relaxes under his touch rather than tense up. 

“Bucky, it’s late. I’m sorry, okay?” It’s a half plead, half demand as the physical effects of his actions still haven’t dissipated. Bucky knows from the speed of his heart when his Stevie is nervous of agitated. Or in this case aroused.

“No. I’m sorry Steve.” Without turning completely, Steve gives him more of his attention. His silence is enough to note his questioning. “I should’ve realised before.”

“Wh-what do you mean, Buck?”

He answers with his body rather than try to explain his thoughts out loud; Bucky could be the clumsiest person when his mind got hazy. His hand moves to Steve’s chest, and in a swift pull he brings him closer. Close enough to kiss along his shoulder, then up his neck, until his nose tickles the base of his scalp.

“Buck,” Steve shivers.

“Let me. Please Stevie,” he says, his breath warm on the poor boy’s frigid body. When he doesn’t feel a protest, he lowers his hand onto his stomach, takes extra time just under his navel before he ventures under the waistband of his briefs. He’s perfectly hard under his touch, it takes a longer stroke than he anticipated before his thumb can reach the soaked tip. Steve hums deep in his throat. Bucky’s hip jerks forward in response. He’s already a mess and he’s only been touching him for a few seconds.

“Yes,” Steve whimpers. It earns him a soft bite to the shoulder; tender action meant to stifle a moan. “Bucky, don’t hold back.”

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear this,” he answers.

He’s got Steve on his stomach as soon as he’s done answering, a low grunt escapes his lips when he kneels over Steve’s legs, admiring the boy’s slender body. He snakes his hands over his shoulders, over his arms. He feels every inch of his skin as if he’d seen it for the first time. It feels new, strange even, to be able to give his pal what he’d always dreamed of; but it’s the best sentiment he’s ever experienced. From the soft moans he can pull from Steve, Bucky knows he’s enjoying this as well. Once the muscles under his touch have gone slack, he proceeds lower, kissing the trail he makes in the valley of his back. Steve jerks his hips up slightly when Bucky’s thumbs come to rest over his back dimples. He’s longing for what’s next; for the frightening act of intimacy.

“Bucky, you don’t-” He’s cut short in his suggestion by the inevitable. He moans Bucky’s name over and over every time his tongue flattens over his puckered hole. Bucky’s at work like a hungry man who’s just discovered the sweetest fruit. He licks and sucks and pokes intently at the flustered mess of man underneath him; and /he’s/ already done for. He’s rock hard in his own boxers at the way he can get Steve to squirm. 

“Ja-james! Ah!” Steve’s got both hands fisting the sheet and his face flat into his pillow. He moves his hips along with the tactful intrusions. There’s a sticky mess already glueing his stomach to the mattress but he doesn’t care. If anything it allows for the lack of friction on his aching dick. “More. Please,” he pants.

He can hear Bucky spit but his rear is already too worn out from the previous actions to feel a thing. There’s a light poke, then a sting as Bucky’s slowly inching two fingers into him. 

“So fucking tight, Stevie. God… You’re going to ruin my cock, aren’t ya?” His words send shivers up their bodies. 

“All yours Buck,” Steve adds before choking on his words when he feels a third finger joining the others. “Always been yours.” With that said, Steve stretches back as best he can and brings a hand to the brunette’s hair. He plays with the curls, eyes fixed on the icy blues and his stomach tightens when Bucky leans into the touch. He moves his hand to his chin and pulls him up so their eyes are leveled.

“Will you let me take care of you now?” Bucky asks and regrets the way he phrased that.

“I can ta-”

“No, punk.” He sighs and closes his eyes. “It’s not about bullies anymore Stevie. I want you to feel wanted. Desired. It always pissed me off to see how the ladies treated you. They don’t know what they’re missing.” There’s a moment of silence while Steve turns around and sits straighter. His brows furrow but he doesn’t argue.

“Bucky, it’s fine. Those girls didn’t really have anything going for me, anyway.”

“So… Will you?” He’s still not looking at Steve. Afraid that maybe this was all he could allow himself to take. He ruined his chance, he thinks. But then Steve’s thumb comes to his chin and he’s forced to look up. The pretty blond is all smiles; the sweet pink on his cheeks warms Bucky’s heart. Steve dives in and crashes his lips to his friend’s. His boyfriend? Lover? He isn’t sure yet but that doesn’t matter for the night. 

“Would that include letting me come before the morning?” There’s a gasp coming from Bucky as the question comes out, but he smiles and nods stupidly at Steve’s confidence. He pounces on him, their lips meeting again in a heated kiss. 

“Only if it’s while I’m fucking that prefect little ass,” he taunts.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Steve answers.

The following nights are spent identically. Several years of hidden feelings are finally being rewarded and the boys know exactly how to make up for lost time. Most of their breaks are spent in their room, in the sauna or in the private lounge each team gets to share alternatively. Between trainings and meals, before, during and after showers. It’s an insatiable feeling to be wanted and taken care of, which never came easily to Steve until the very moment Bucky had his face between his hands and seemed to dwell into his eyes. Everything went on so quickly. Too quickly, perhaps, for Bucky soon found himself feeling guilty. Dirty. To be filling his needs with his favourite boy, while he knows he’s building a really fragile castle around them. To be imagining a life of happiness that had no place to be. Amongst the group, none seem to have caught up on their shenanigans. They were safe. Safe in the confines of this ship until the mission was over and they’d have to go back to being best buddies; friends since playground. It’s a thought that has Bucky’s stomach churning. He’d been glued to bed with a pounding headache for two days, and a raging boner he kept denying Steve. This has to stop, he thinks.

The curtains rush open, startling him out of sleep. Through the bright, manipulated daylight he sees Steve’s silhouette standing in front of their window. 

“What’s up, Stevie?” His voice barely makes it out of him.

“I could ask you the same,” Steve accuses right away. He can hear Bucky fall back into his pillow and grunt.

“Care to explain…”

“You’re unbelievable.” He paces, his hands on his hips. “What’s so hard for you to accept? I thought you realised that we had been hiding these mutual feelings. I thought you were on my side, Buck. You haven’t touched me, haven’t even looked at me in the eyes for a week…”

The anguish in his voice has Bucky up on his feet in a second - he’s ready to lay down his point of view but Steve retorts faster.

“Look around! We’re in a fucking ship that’s meant to be in space, man.” His finger taps the glass behind him. “Everything around us is astonishing progress.”

“Yeah, simulated,” Bucky says.

“But progress nonetheless. Forget what people think. Gosh I wish this thing could take us to the future. Maybe things would have changed…” Bucky takes a step closer and he’s ready to fold. He wants Steve in his arms. Wants to keep his word and hold him tight. He reaches his arms out but quickly retracts when a sharp object flies over his upper arm.

“What the-”

There’s a rush of wind that sends a dozen more pieces their way. The back wall of their room is fractured, smoke coming in from the adjacent room, followed by a muffled scream. The strident screeching of metal makes it hard to focus. Alarms have gone off and an external team is running around, trying to find everyone.

It suddenly becomes hard to breathe but the medics have surged to rescue the guys who were stuck behind the flames. When Bucky turns around to grab onto Steve, he finds him lying on the ground, hands clenching his stomach and he swears that even through all the back-alley fights he’s never seen Steve’s face so contorted. A piece of steel bigger than his hand pokes out of a gash just under his left rib. Bucky knows not to pull it from him. He’d seen the consequences first hand on the field. 

“Don’t move, don’t move.” He’s got a hand on his shoulder and the other beneath his head. There’s a glance around his body before he’s sure he can lift him up. Luckily, Steve’s about half the size of the guys Bucky had to carry in boot camp. He makes sure to keep the wound close to himself, and he heads towards the nearest door, the floor plan of the ship something he knows like the back of his hand.

“I got you Stevie,” Bucky says when he hears him weep.

**

Bucky’s fidgeting on the chair around the corner of two narrow hallways. His arm still burns from the alcohol-drenched bandage someone put on him while he was passed out. He turns to the one on his right. It’s bright from all the fluorescents and much too lifeless to his liking. The same nurse keeps shuffling through the different doors with a pad in hands. His head is about to explode from all the beeping of the life support machines and the aftermath of inhaling so much smoke. Someone at the end of the hall in front of him keeps coughing and Bucky’s throat is suddenly tingling. He’s a moment away from bolting up from his seat when Peggy walks out of the room.

“Barnes.” She has an apologetic look, but she offers a sweet smile. “He’d like to see you.”

There’s a blink before he can react, before blood goes back into his legs and he can head towards her. She reaches for his arm and guides him over, stopping just before the curtain around the bed.

“Now,” she begins. “We’ve had to um… They did someth-”

“He’s fine?” He practically screams.

“Yes. Yes James he is fine.” She takes a step back and stretches her arm to direct him forward. He takes a deep breath, flattens his shirt over himself as a habit and nervously pulls onto the edge of the curtain.

His heart skips a beat when he lays eyes on him. He recognizes the flowy blond hair; he wants to run his hand through it. But he’s taken aback when he gets closer. The under shirt they put on him is about to burst from the width of his shoulders. His jaw, man, his jaw is square and strong, just like the rest of him. He scans him up. Once. Twice. He thinks it���s the illusion of Steve being laid down, but he knows he’s gotten taller. Before he can wonder further a hand comes to his shoulder.

“Stark. What happened?” He asks, not taking his eyes off his friend.

“The infection spread like wildfire. His frail disposition made it impossible for him to surpass this. He needed a little...boost...if I can say so.”

“Well, a boost he got!” Bucky answers a tad enthusiastically. He sees Peggy smirk and his cheeks heat up. “Sorry,” he mouths.

“Yes. Well. We had this experimental serum going around for a while. A project run by Dr. Erskine. It was meant to help soldiers heal faster. Make their ability to bulk up easier. Let’s say we might have dosed up a little on him.”

“Is it permanent?”

“So far.” Peggy joins in.

“Did it... hurt?” There’s a new concern in Bucky’s voice. The same gut wrenching feeling he had whenever he found Steve beat up to the ground. He closes his eyes to keep the imminent tears from spilling out. 

“Did it like a champ,” comes Steve’s voice next.

**

“Steve, listen,” Bucky begins as they walk into their apartment, bags of groceries in arms - the first one since they’ve been back from the mission. He’s walking behind him, still astounded by the two inches Steve has won. Their elbows bump as they walk around in the kitchen - they’ve yet to adjust to the two of them taking a lot of space; the conversation of them moving out into a new place was impending. 

“Bucky, stop. I know you didn’t want to hurt me.” He means it, but Steve continues to set the things away without looking at him.

“I got caught off guard, Stevie. The lady asked the question but the tone in her voice made me uncomfortable. I should have s-”

“Yes. You should have said we were together. But it’s fine,” he adds. Bucky steps up and grabs one of the blonde’s hands. He brings it to his chest, over his heart, and his eyes begin to water when they get lost in his. There’s a synched deep breath before Bucky composes himself.

“I’m sorry.” Steve’s shoulders loosen at the small admission - he watches as Bucky kisses his fingers one by one before leaning into him. His lips come to his neck and Steve can’t help but shiver. The serum surely had enhanced everything.

“Why is it still so hard for you to acknowledge this,” Steve says as he rubs Bucky’s back. “Every time you say ‘friend’ my stomach flinches.” 

“Strict family. It’s been coded into me when I was young. Every time I would hang out with you I’d get deathly stares at the dinner table.” Steve hugs him tighter. Bucky had never mentioned this before. Never said a word about being roughed around as a kid. He feels guilty. A feeling of remorse stikes through him as he recalls the numerous times he asked Bucky to pose for his sketches. Or when he needed a hand climbing somewhere and Bucky would hold onto him /just that way/. He didn’t know that his father was overlooking their every move from his office window. Didn’t know that his own mother was being lectured about their behavior.

“Plus, I still look at you and kind of freak out that I don’t have my little Stevie anymore. But you know… I’m really looking forward to what /this/ Steve can do.” He takes a step back to better look at him. His hands are on his hard chest, making their way onto his shoulders and he can feel Steve relax under his touch. One hand moves up to his nape before settling onto the side of his face; the other has made its way south, tracing every muscle on the way down. 

“How about you knock some sense into me?” Bucky taunts, eyes dark and glimmery. It takes Steve out of his thought - pulls him out quite harshly in fact - but he lets the brunette palm him through the thick fabric of his chinos. 

“But, Buck. We always-”

“I know. But I want to, baby. At least once…” There’s a soft whine along Bucky’s words and Steve melts into his embrace. Their lips stand close, waiting patiently for the right opportunity; though Bucky’s hand has made its way past Steve’s zipper by now. “For once, Stevie...please fuck me.”

It’s beastial. The way Steve picks his lover like he’s not heavier than a pillow. How he has him pinned to the wall by their room - they had finally started sleeping in the same bed, and eventually turned the spare room into a small art studio.

It takes a minute for Bucky’s hand to land onto the door handle, and another second for his mind to command it to turn it open. Steve’s grunt follows when it finally pries wide, allowing them to adventure further. Three steps later, Bucky finds himself thrown onto the stiff mattress, shirt gone missing while strong hands are already working at the button of his pants.

“Don’t break anything, Rogers.” He lifts himself onto his elbows to look down at the brusque man between his legs.

“The only thing I might be breaking is the bed,” he begins, his words muffled as he bites down on his tongue in concentration. He looks up at the headboard. Surely this was the first time they’d be intimate since ‘the change’. It most likely frightens Bucky more than it does Steve. A grin autographs his next words. “We need a new one anyway.” And with that he hooks his fingers into the waistband of both Bucky’s pants and underwear, and glides them off his thighs.

“Always so fucking hard for me,” Steve growls. “No wonder, you had /me/ on my back like that. I could get used to this view.”

“Don’t linger, Stevie.” Bucky’s words are low, but stern. His hips buck in agreement.

“Was I so whiny all the time?” They both chuckle before Bucky swats him on the chest.

“Only when I was balls deep in that fantastic ass,” he answers, both hands on the plump flesh he mentioned. The action causes Steve to grind into him - and he’d be lying if he said that wasn’t the plan all along. Bruises would appear on his shoulders the next day with how hard Steve’s biting down on them.

“I swear to God-" The enhanced man has his prey on his stomach in a flash, barely taking a breath of effort. He reaches forward to present two fingers to Bucky who gladly coats them in a generous amount of saliva. A hum rumbles into his chest when he feels them swipe over his hole, Steve taking his turn in exploring his man. The stretch is new, although Bucky had done this to himself in the past. The sweet tickling feeling of the intrusion is brain numbing. He's not sure he’s going to last. Surely Steve’s new physique could give more than he bargained for.

“Holy shit,” he cries when he feels the head of his dick press against him. They both moan when Steve inches into him with ease until his hips meet with Bucky’s ass and he stops, giving both of them a moment to adjust.

“Never thought it would be this good,” the blond grunts, eyes shut as he focuses on not painting the walls that so tightly envelop him. He pulls out just a tad, before pushing back in and establishing a smooth rhythm. Bucky contorts and mewls beneath him, his eyes go white as they roll to the back of his head.

“Like that, huh?” Steve asks. “I sure as hell fucking like it.”

Bucky can only make faint noises. Steves and ahs and what not escape his lips in the smoothest symphony Steve has ever heard. He’s fucking him relentless, unsure of how he can even get his hips to move this way as he never found himself in this exact position. But he’s going. And going. And he’s loving every moment, so much so that he’s not sure he can ever go back to the old ways. Inevitably him or Bucky would succumb. Both giving and receiving felt amazing, but he’d always be James’ little Stevie.

“You take me so well, fuck,” he adds.

“Ste-eve.”

“I know. Poor little face is all red and hot. You’re so close, love.” The praise comes naturally from Steve, but it seems to have Bucky blushing even more. He bends down and snakes an arm under Bucky so his hand can come around and hook onto his neck. His right knee spreads his legs even further, allowing him to bottom down into him; the head of his cock nudges that sweet spot and as if the words weren’t enough, it has Bucky pulsing and making a mess on the bed.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” He exclaims as he empties himself completely while Steve still pounds into him. He reaches back and grabs his lover by the head to bring him in for a heated kiss. A moment later it’s Steve’s turn to fall over the edge. He groans and shakes as he gives three more thrusts before pulling out and letting his seed splatter over the spent brunette’s back. Hot spurts reach up to his shoulders and onto his cheek. Steve is quick to lean forward and lick him clean.

“So good,” he says.

“Stevie, that’s your own cum,” Bucky replies with a shy smile. Who’d have thought Steven Rogers would be the kinky one.

“Mmm. And?”

“And… I want some.” They both chuckle before Bucky can grab onto the man’s broad shoulders and fetch what he wanted.

Self-Preservation

Strap in my lovelies because this is a XXL rant:

I work in a retail store that sells skateboard products, clothing related to said skateboards, snowboards, jeans, t-shirts.. you get the idea. We even offer to grip and/or build the skateboard in store for absolutely no charge.

Now I’m not complaining about the store. I love working there. I want to eventually work in their corporate office, but my heart broke yesterday.

We are a commission based company with regular hourly pay which means that sales are SUPER important. Every month, we are expected to be above the average set at the beginning of said month and I, being the competitive bitch I am, always strive to beat everyone, but something happened that turned my stomach.

There is this guy named Steven (not his real name; privacy reasons). He is best friend with my manager, Nathan (again not his really name). These two guys have known each other for YEARS and act like they are practically brothers. I though nothing of it when I first met him on Black Friday. He seemed chill, relaxed, and always trying to make people laugh. The second time we worked together something had changed. He was abrupt, cold, and was acting like I wasn’t really there.

No worries, I thought to myself! He probably doesn’t know me, but every shift was the same. I just didn’t understand what I had done. Did I say something? Did I act a certain way? I was really confused.

I gave up on my proagitive of trying to gain his acceptance and just aimed to be cordial around him. That didn’t work so well. If some of you don’t know, I have Lupus SLE. The most basic definition - “Systemic lupus erythematosus (SLE) is an autoimmune disease. In this disease, the immune system of the body mistakenly attacks healthy tissue. It can affect the skin, joints, kidneys, brain, and other organs.”

The symptoms that I was having were the following:

- Muscle and joint pain

- Migraine

- Hot then cold

- Nausea, can’t eat at all

- Super hungry, like I can’t get enough food

- Tingling in wrists and cheeks

- Ache in left arm

- Left wrist pain

- Lower and upper back pain is always present

- Hands and feet feel cold

- Heart racing or beating out of my chest

- Chest pain

- Tietze syndrome

- Pain on left side of body

- Cracking or crunching sounds when I move

- Lightheadness

- Fainting spells

- Shortness of breathe

- Fatigue

I’m doing much better now. I’m on chemotherapy and medication that is helping, but no one knew the extent of what I was going through at the time. I mean why would I say that in an interview? People are predujiced. “Why hire a sick person when I could hire a healthy one?”

Anyway, the first incident was when I went to my shift with a cold. Now being on chemo, my immune system is shot so upper respiratory infections are not to be taken lightly. While I was unloading shipment, I felt my airway closing. I couldn’t breathe. My heart was pounding so hard that I could feel it knocking against my sternum. I needed to go to the hospital. NOW.

I grabbed my manager and told her in my low wheezing voice, “Please. *short spurting and wheezing inhale* I need to call my mom. *Another short wheezing inhale* Hospital.” I was holding onto a display table because I could feel the blood swimming in my head. She excused me immediately and my mom took me to the ER where I was diagnosis with a very mild case of pneumonia. If you think that’s bad, look up pneumonia in lupus patients.

That same night, while I WAS ON AN OXYGEN MASK mind you, I get a text from one of my closest coworkers saying that Steven was talking shit. I was confused and asked her what happened? She goes on to explain that he sent her a picture of all work they were left to do because “poor fucking Allison had an “asthma” attack.” I was livid. I told her that I was ER with pneumonia on oxygen. I felt unfairly judged and ashamed of my illness.

I decided not to say anything and just have it roll off my shoulders until I noticed that some of my sales weren’t accounted for. Hmm, that’s strange. I know that I definitely sold that to this person and this one etc. I did some investigating and guess what? Steven had been stealing my sales. This time, I wasn’t going to let it go. I printed up the reports, highlighted the pages along with notes in the margins about what had transpired and took it in to my manager the next day.

“Hey Nathan, can I talk to you?”

“Sure Allison, what’s up?”

“Well, I just wanted to let you know that last night Steven stole two of my sales and one of Yvette’s (not real name, blah blah, you get the idea).”

“Oh well maybe he didn’t see you talking them?”

“I actually went up to him before I took my lunch break and told him that customer X and Y were getting these, but were still looking around.”

He then inquired about Yvette’s sale which he seemed to be a lot more interested in.

“It also made me very uncomfortable when he..”

“Well if you feel uncomfortable, then maybe you need to rethink your position and ask yourself if this job is really right for you. Can you work more than a four hour shift? Can you work a six, seven, or eight hour shift? Plus, you’re both adults and should handle it. There shouldn’t be this negative environment that is being created so you need to ask yourself if this is really the right place for you.”

“I come in whenever you ask me to..”

“But you also leave a lot. I understand you have health problems, but you can’t say that you come in all the time only to leave.”

At this point, I was gritting my teeth. Blocking everything out. I decided then that he didn’t care about helping me, only protecting Steven.

About three months past and Steven and I were tolerating each other until I notice that at $133 sale is missing from my stats. Greattttt. It’s happening again. I printed it out and began writing down exactly what happened. I told my assistant manager about this and she said that she saw what happened. She said she had talked to Nathan before about having everyone come in to talk about this, but he blew it off and said it was “fucking dumb.” I held it in. I waited because I knew that our district manager was coming that Saturday. I was going to tell her because Nathan didn’t seem to take it seriously.

The day arrives and I’m excited. I grab my papers and show her once I arrive. She makes small talk and my dumbass accidentally lets slip that I have lupus. Her eyes widen and I think I’m fucked only to find out that she knew someone with lupus, but she didn’t know about it until they quit the job. I then tell her about the whole predujiced issue blah blah blah and the Steven problem and then head off to my shift where I fucking kill it. In the first two hours, I made over $1,600 for the store. I was loving life because I was impressing the god damn district manager.

I went to break and returned to have Nathan talk to me. I thought oh no. He said that he wanted to apologize for being an asshole for the past two months and that he appreciated me blah bullshit bullshit bullshit. He then brought up the talk I had with the DM about Steven stealing sales. I proceed to give him the document and he said he’d investigate. He then starts to tell me that I crowd the register by looking at my stats constantly and that creates distrust. I told him that I couldn’t trust Steven because this has happened twice already and yet again he proceeds to berate me about my illness and if this is the right place for me. I listen silently while tears rolled down my face. While Nathan was talking, Steven was walking in and out of the room getting items and seeing my tears. After the rant is over he says:

“Why’re you down right now?” At this point, I start bawling.

“Because I give my all for this job. Every single comment or criticism I take as an opportunity to grow. Every lesson that I’m given, I keep going until I pass it. This job doesn’t cause me pain. Some days, I wake up in pain when I’m not working, but I still come in because that’s how dedicated I am to be here. I know that I’ve left a few times, but I haven’t left early since late February.”

Silence.

“I was laying in my bed for two years before I came here and I know that’s not an excuse, but there’s a certain adjustment period. I couldn’t run before because my knees felt like they would give out and break. I couldn’t stand for longer than 45 seconds because my heart would beat out my chest and make me faint. I couldn’t sleep for days because the narcotics weren’t working. I still have those days, but I come in to help and when I see that my stats are going down, it upsets me because I’ve work incredibly hard to be here. I love this job more than anything and I will not quit just because I’m in pain.”

“Alright. I understand. I’ll do some investigating and see what I find out.”

I dry my eyes and hold my head high thinking that I’ve convinced him only to later find out I was gossiped about.. again.

Steven to Yvette,” Time to go steal some sales.”

Steven,” Yeah I think she got in trouble for “telling”. *laughs*

When I saw the messages that my friend sent to me, I felt nothing. I was numb. I knew then that I was never going to let anyone know what was really going on. Never let anyone know if I was in some much pain that I would pass out until I collapsed on their floor or that I was not getting the sales that were mine. I hid back into myself and made the decision to go to work the next day being as happy as fuck. I would continue being this way so if there was any drama, they wouldn’t be looking at the girl who never complains.

I decided to preserve myself from getting hurt any further, create a persona, and only focus on my goal. No one was going to fuck with my livelihood. I’d make sure of that. If they do, I’ll fucking destroy them.

What Staff And Employers Can Do To Manage Workplace Fatigue During Covid

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4-7-8

This is a personal essay I wrote for my creative non fiction class. I dunno if any of you will find it interesting, but here it is in case you do. It’s a very rough draft of an essay about my relationship with breathing.

    I’m told that babies cry when they’re born to get their lungs to start. Whether or not they’re actually upset about being introduced to the fluorescent lighting of the hospital we may never know, but they start crying to get their lungs working, everyone tells me. Maybe they’re upset about having to breathe now. After all, oxygen has been fed to them by their parent for what? Eight or nine months now? The poor little level one human hasn’t had to do anything yet, but it knows what it has to do anyways. Scream and breathe.

    Somewhere along the path to becoming a fully realized human creature we lose most of our screaming privileges, but we all keep on breathing. If you have to choose between water and air, you always choose air because that buys you another three days to negotiate yourself some water. You can’t survive more than a few minutes without air, as annoying as that is when you seriously want to be lazy at the bottom of a swimming pool or bury yourself in blankets to escape responsibility for a few hours.

    Sometimes I forget to breathe. Just for a few seconds. I’m watching a movie or reading a book or solving some idiotic logic puzzle that most other humans would have solved by now and I become so invested that I just sort of don’t breathe for a bit. Usually this snaps me out of my trance because of the uncomfortable sensation in my lungs occasionally coupled with lightheadedness. I usually feel like a buffoon after that. Imaginary people in my head point at me and laugh. Look at that guy. They can’t even remember to breathe. No actual human has ever told me I’m stupid for forgetting to breathe sometimes. I just imagine that they do.

    Breathing has always been an issue, unfortunately. I have asthma, which means my body decides sometimes that it’s under attack and responds by attacking itself. Not quite like allergies. I’m told when an irritant enters my respiratory system my body decides to set off a red alert or something and then my lungs start tensing up. The tubes that the air usually goes through become much smaller and start filling up with mucus. Charming, really. It can also be painful. Physical education class was always my worst nightmare in high school. They made me run and I had to use my inhaler. I even ran when I was sick, which I’m pretty sure nearly killed me. I had a friend that also had asthma, but his asthma wasn’t triggered by running. Luis’ asthma was more under control than mine. Sometimes he would run an extra lap just to jog next to me and tell me I could do it. He reminded me to put my arms above my head when it got really bad and then sat next to me while I took my medication.

    I think of Luis briefly years later when I’m in a class about managing anxiety and we’re talking about breathing. The therapist leading the class has one of those voices that are suspiciously calm. The other three people in the class are between the ages of forty five and fifty six and seem to be buying every word she’s saying. One of them is a woman with a panic disorder, another is a woman with an extreme worrying problem, and the third is a man who just left his abusive ex wife and worries about her finding him. I’m nineteen and having panic attacks and detached general anxiety and social fears. I’m just listening to the unconvincingly calm therapist talking about breathing. The only thing I took away from that class was that if you’re too anxious you may start breathing with shorter breaths. If you don’t ever take deep breaths then your brain won’t work properly. She leads us through a breathing exercise that doesn’t involve any counting. My lungs fill up for the first time in weeks and it’s strangely disorienting. I wonder if this is at all similar to breathing for the first time. My cynicism tells me this is all pointless and weird. I’m more scared than I was when I arrived. I feel like screaming would feel pretty cathartic right now, but I’m told it’s not appropriate for adults to scream unless absolutely necessary, so I just keep pressure on my diaphragm and continue to pretend to blow out a candle with the four people that are all over twenty years older than me.

    As I have a panic attack for the second time in a month I start to realize where terrifying maniacal laughter might come from. This level of terror and disability is almost funny in a way. It is funny. Pain is funny. That’s where comedy comes from, I’m told. Counting calms me down sometimes, so I try a breathing technique that involves counting. Breathe in for four seconds, hold your breath for seven seconds, and then breathe out for eight seconds. Four seven eight. Four seven eight. It doesn’t work for me apparently. I fall back on my bed as my fingers and lips go numb. It feels like my chest is caught in one of those clamps I see my dad using when he works with wood. The ones that twist down and slowly become tighter as you screw and will leave a circular indent in the wood if you go overboard. Moving feels like the biggest task in the world. I want to cry to release whatever hormones are making me feel like this. Somehow stop getting attacked by my own fight or flight instinct on this scale. I keep on breathing. I can’t think about anything complicated so my mind drifts to lemonade flavored slurpees. I forget to breathe for a second and that’s my downfall. I was too focused on lemonade flavored slurpees. The imaginary people in my head start pointing and laughing again and I tell them to piss off. They do, because normally I don’t use such crude language and it shocked them away. That’s what I imagine, anyhow.

    On days when my mental state isn’t trying to kill me and my respiratory system actually works, sometimes I wear a chest binder. It just looks like a normal tank top, but it’s actually made to squish breasts out of sight, and consequently makes it harder to breathe. So every day when I wake up I have to choose between lungs full of air and a relatively flat chest paired with some mental comfort. On days when I choose the flat chest I cough more than usual. That charming thing called mucus makes it’s delightful entrance and builds up to restrict my breathing so I have to cough to remind the mucus that it is not welcome. It never takes the hint, of course, but I keep at it. After eight hours I struggle out of the thing and gasp with an incredibly ugly noise like I was just underwater for two minutes. The pressure on my body subsides and all of the relief that my lungs feel seems to be begging me to never do that again, for the love of God please no. I don’t listen and the next day or a few days later I’m back at it again, purposefully letting my breathing be restricted just so I’m a little less likely to be mistaken for a girl again.

    When I can’t breathe I usually cough a lot. I’m told my mother just went blue. Apparently the first time she had an asthma attack she didn’t cough at all. She just couldn’t breathe and my grandmother carried her into the hospital. I guess breathing problems run in the family then. One of the few clear memories I have of my mother is her breathing vapor out of a machine. It was a white box hooked up to some tubes that we had that you put some kind of medication in and breathed in the vapors. My mother had a blue mouthpiece that she put her mouth around and breathed out of. When I was hooked up to the breathing machine I wore a mask and didn’t use the mouth thing, because when you used the mask the vapor came out of some holes that looked a bit like nostrils and you could pretend to be a dragon. I still pretend to be a dragon with my breath. I didn’t need that breathing machine forever like my mama did, but on cold days when I can see my breath I’ll breathe hard and in my mind imagine it’s smoke.

When I was in middle school sometimes I would pretend the smoke was from a cigarette. I would pretend to smoke in the early mornings waiting for classes to start. My father used to actually smoke. He doesn’t have asthma so he could. He quit before I was born so now it’s like he never smoked at all. His mother died of lung cancer at eighty five. She started smoking when she was twelve, I think. One of his sisters has quit smoking too late and she has lung cancer too now. I know I would die if I smoked a cigarette. Sometimes I’m bold enough to joke about how if I ever wanted to die I’d just walk over to seven eleven and buy a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. My younger brother has asthma too, but his lungs aren’t bothered by tobacco. He hates the smell of it though. I love the smell of it but can’t stay around it for more than a few breaths or else my lungs will panic again. I remember when I used to hug my aunt that smoked or my paternal grandma. They smelled like tobacco. I love that smell, but it always steals my breath away, so I have to avoid it.

If you go more than a few seconds without breathing things get ugly, which annoys me because that means I can’t actually sleep face down. My pillow would kill me faster than the cigarettes would, which is a shame because I find lying face down on a pillow to be extremely comfortable for the thirty seconds I’m able to hold my breath without panic or discomfort. The comfort of lying facedown on that pillow is just another thing that makes me hyper aware of my own breathing. I lie facedown on it when I want to forget about the world for a second. Usually when I’m anxious but not having an attack. Then maybe I’ll try that famous breathing technique again. The one that never works for me but I use anyways. Four seven eight. Four seven eight. It’s a Tuesday night in January and I haven’t known a full set of lungs in about a week. The air is probably cold enough outside for me to play dragon if I want to, but I don’t go out because everyone is asleep and if I open the door they could wake up. I feel dizzy from so much air. It’s confusing but my brain does feel clearer. I suppress my primal urge to scream out in frustration and try burying my head in the pillow again. I need to dust my room and I forgot to take my preventative medication so my lungs start panicking. I take the rescue inhaler and then go back to the pillow in an attempt to block out the voices that tell me I’m so stupid I can’t even breathe correctly. I’m too tired to tell them to piss off right now.

I can’t remember the day I was born or if I didn’t want to breathe, but right now I wish I didn’t have to. I don’t want to die. I just wish these complications didn’t exist. I wish I could just continue existing as I do without this annoying fact of existence for us carbon based life forms called respiration. Or if I have to keep doing this thing, I’d at least like it to be socially acceptable to scream about it. Babies get to. They’re expected to. If they don’t scream about it there’s a problem. Their lungs aren’t working. Or perhaps we’re all wrong about this and the newborns are annoyed that they actually have to do things now. That seems like an understandable reason to scream if you ask me. Even breathing is frustrating.